


so quite new a thing

by prince_benji



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: (kinda), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Angst, Childlessness, Knotting, M/M, Mission Fic, Mpreg, Slow Romance, alpha!Bond, not a spoiler though, omega!Q, teeny-tiny reference to SPECTRE in a later chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-02 03:16:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5231855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prince_benji/pseuds/prince_benji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Bond was also interested. He had caught the first whiff of interest as early as their first meeting in the National Gallery, where they had sized each other up and traded banter to get some idea of each other. Q almost dreaded to think what Bond had made of his scent – his unbonded status, certainly; his sex, without a doubt; and perhaps even the elusive whiff of being quite taken with the legendary James Bond.</i><br/>Q wants a family; Bond wants Q. But is it ever really that simple?<br/>This story is now complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by @besanii - thank you! xx

I

It was a blessedly quiet morning at Q Branch, and sweeter still for its rareness. 007 had made it back late the previous night from Sri Lanka; 004 was still en-route to Delhi and not due to land for several hours; 006 had just checked in from Madrid; and 001 had been in touch with R from Gdansk. All in all, it was a lovely moment of calm. Q thought he could indulge himself a bit, and did something he very rarely allowed himself. He accessed his personal e-mail at work.

Q opened the files that had been attached to the latest e-mail he'd received, and smiled. He took another sip of his tea, and started to browse through the photographs; they were many, and he lingered over several, pausing in particular to peruse the ones where it was just him and Geraldine, the baby pressed against his chest protectively, and his nose nuzzling the back of her head.

She was an absolute angel, and Q felt a very acute twinge of longing at the sight of them together. It was a bit over a week since the photos had been taken, and he hadn't seen her since.

“Getting broody, Quartermaster?”

Bond.

Q didn't flinch because that would have been unprofessional. Instead, he turned to look at the newcomer with a very unimpressed frown. It was a look he had come to perfect over his months long acquaintance with this particular double-oh.

“Such remarks could be construed as workplace harassment, Double-oh Seven,” he said mildly.

Not that he expected Bond to care. He seemed to treat everyone, perhaps barring his fellow double-ohs, with the same flippant disregard, but that didn't mean Q had to like it. And if Bond thought he could waltz in and make stereotyping remarks about child-broody Omegas to his technical superior, well, he had another think coming.

“No such sentiment intended, Q,” Bond said. He narrowed his eyes at the monitor; Q belatedly remembered that he had left the last photo in full view. “Cute pup. Not yours, I presume?”

Q gave him another one of his unimpressed looks. “Hardly, Double-oh Seven.”

The photograph in question was perhaps a bit too revealing, he thought; his lips were pressed to the pup's perfect, downy cheek, face full of utter adoration. One could perhaps forgive Bond for suspecting him of getting broody; he did look the part. Q closed the photograph and took a fortifying breath. Bond had been coming down to his branch more often these past few months, and Q still didn't quite know how to deal with the him.

First, Bond was an Alpha – one old-fashioned enough to exude an unapologetically imperial air of command about him wherever he went. Q refused to back down an inch before any agent, but it was inarguably hard to stand one's ground when Bond went into full Alpha-mode.

Second, Bond was also interested. He had caught the first whiff of interest as early as their first meeting in the National Gallery, where they had sized each other up and traded banter to get some idea of each other. Q almost dreaded to think what Bond had made of his scent – his unbonded status, certainly; his sex, without a doubt; and perhaps even the elusive whiff of being quite taken with the legendary James Bond.

No, Double-oh Seven wasn't the handsomest man around, even among the agents, but he was built, and deadly, and so utterly Alpha; it was quite unparalleled in his previous experience.

Oh, it was entirely possible that Q was sporting a crush of his own. Eve certainly thought so, pulling faces at him whenever Bond was mentioned, and going as far as to extol his virtues to such an extent that Q couldn't help but laugh. (“You'll never get me to believe you'd shag him. You're both Alphas, you'd be much more likely to bite him than to kiss him!” “Oh, I don't know. Have you seen that body of his?” And yes, Q had noticed.)

“So what brings you by, Double-oh Seven? I wasn't aware you needed to be equipped for anything.”

“Me neither, Q. I was just passing by and wanted to see if you had anything interesting going on.”

Q's lips twitched despite himself. Bond was a pain in the arse, but he did have his charm. “Define 'interesting'. Nothing explosive in the works, no. However I have just received the latest prototype of the recording contact lenses for final testing. They're kinetic, and charge themselves on saline. They also come in several colours.”

Not that they came in the improbable hue of Bond's eyes.

“Do you need a test subject?” Bond asked nonchalantly, hands stuffed in his trousers pockets. He didn't look disappointed when Q told him no.

“I'm testing them myself. The best part is that they actually also work as a seeing aid,” Q said, pushing up his glasses. He took in the speculative look on Bond's face and sighed. “And what now?”

“I'm just trying to imagine you without those glasses.”

Q almost blushed. “Well don't,” he said. “I'll be wearing the lenses at home, mostly.”

Now it was Bond's turn to almost smile. “And when do you ever go home, Q? I come in at six am, you're here. I come in at ten pm, you're here. Please don't tell me you call your office 'home'.”

“I do have an actual apartment, Bond, but thank you for your concern,” Q said, blinking. “Now shoo. The morning shift is arriving in ten minutes. They don't need you hovering over them the first thing in the morning.”

“I do no such thing,” Bond protested.

Q gave him a sceptical look and indicated with a flicker of his eyes that Bond was actually standing less than two feet away from him and, thanks to being slightly taller, almost crowding the Quartermaster. Bond stepped back, looking slightly chastised.

“I am likely leaving for Turkey next Monday,” Bond said suddenly. “M was hinting strongly at it.”

“Really? I've heard no such thing.” Q's fingers flew over his keyboard as he drew up Bond's mission files, that the ones he knew Tanner updated personally (and somewhat obsessively). There was no new file set up; Q frowned, wondering what was going on.

“I've heard no such thing either,” Bond said, tongue in cheek. “It was all in between the lines. Subtext, if you will.”

“Well, once it stops being subtext and manifests into actual reality do stop by again, Double-oh Seven,” Q said. “I'll make sure to have something for you. Not your exploding pen, just to pre-empt your next question – which is getting somewhat tedious, one should mention.”

“You don't go for that sort of thing any more, I know,” Bond said. “Which just begs the question: what sort of thing do you go for?”

There it was again, the unstated interest. Q thought he did quite well in not reacting visibly.

“Workplace harassment, Bond,” he said absently, adjusting his glasses. “When have I ever sent you out in the field empty-handed?”

“Last time you sent me out with a radio and a bloody whistle,” Bond said, and Q had to fake a coughing attack.

“...because like I’ve told you a hundred times, and Tanner told you a million times, you were to rendezvous with a French agent just outside of London, and they were to equip you as per the agreement with M–”

“Except that it all went to hell right outside the Vauxhall station – and before you say it again, I'm not a stranger to the rush hour on the Tube.”

Q tried to stare him down, but was frankly a bit too aware of how gorgeous Bond looked when stubborn and riled up. He sighed and had to look away. Bond wasn't wrong.

“I'll personally hand you your gun before you leave for Turkey – or any other place, for that matter,” Q said. “That's a promise.”

He left it unsaid – because it would have been grossly unprofessional to say it – that he had quarrelled with M over not arming 007 for the mission himself; it rankled him to send out an agent unarmed, even if he knew his French colleagues to be competent enough. Only, 'competent enough' wasn't likely to keep a double-oh agent alive, Bond in particular. They had traded some heated words in M's office after the fiasco (after Bond had ended up in Medical and M had finally agreed to allow Q to personally mind Bond's equipment.)

Q wouldn't let that man die on his watch. And as far as Q was concerned, his watch wasn't over until 007 returned back to HQ after his mission.

“Thank you, Q,” Bond said, sounding genuine. “So, the pup? What's her name?”

Q was slightly thrown by the change of topic. “Geraldine Emily,” he said.

Bond nodded. “You look good with her,” he said. He left before Q could cite inappropriate workplace behaviour.

~

His sister Laura rang him after work, and before he knew it, Q had invited her over before Christmas, calculating mentally that he should be able to manage an extra day off from work, barring a global crisis. She was a student at the University of York, co-habiting with a partner. They didn't see each other that often, but Q still considered her the closest member of the family. She was the only one who knew that she worked for Six (not that she knew what his job description entailed; she likely thought he was one of the pencil-pushers).

Laura asked if he was dating anyone. She made sympathetic noises when Q told her that no, he didn't have the time, and outright laughed when Q rebuffed her suggestion of signing up for a dating site. He wasn't that desperate. Also, with his working hours, he simply didn't have the time to date. He barely had the time to have a private life at all, actually, or to do the things that he enjoyed during his off-hours.

He briefly toyed with the idea of telling her about Bond but decided against it, since there wasn't much to tell. For all he knew, Bond's interest was just a passing fancy, soon forgotten in favour of someone more suitable.

They said goodbyes after she made him promise to call more often, and let her know about his Christmas plans; he told her say hi to Luke, her fiancé.

He watched the news while he ate, going through his e-mail on his laptop for any urgent messages; there was a group e-mail to the branch leaders about upcoming employee evaluations (from Tanner), as well as a poll on the choice of venue for the upcoming annual Christmas Party celebrations (from Eve and the few others who were in the self-appointed 'fun committee'). Q decided they could all wait until office hours.

Thanks to the discussion with Laura, he couldn't help his thoughts returning to his own more intimate affairs.

He was young for a branch head. He was also something of a rarity, an Omega in a leading position with a large number of blindingly brilliant subordinates who hailed him as their Overlord (Q made sure it never ended up in writing; M already took him for an eccentric even without knowing all the details).

And he was also getting on a bit: twenty-six, partner-less, and pup-less.

Not for lack of wanting.

It had become something of an automatic reaction. A new agent was shown in, or a new colleague (never an employee, or an intern, that was a steadfast rule), or a new anyone, and he would take notice. Of their sex, and their status, and levels of possible interest. Most unbonded Alphas showed at least a little interest, but it didn't often lead to anything other than mild flirtation, intimidation, or very misguided attempts at 'showing him his place' (oh, did they ever come to regret that. Q took entirely too much pleasure in teaching them better).

Jack had been the last one to take him out for dinner, and they had talked about books and tech, and skirted around the issue of a family. Q had made it clear that he expected to keep working until it was physically too uncomfortable to continue doing so, and would return to work after the appointed parental leave to his job as a branch head. Jack had asked if his priorities should change after he had a pup to look after, and Q had expressed his opinion that since the pup would have two parents, the other father could pitch in to the pup's care in equal amount.

It was a rather progressive stance to take, he realised, especially after seeing the look on Jack's face.

A month later (with no more dinners), Jack had started to come in with a young intern straight out of uni; a few months after that, the intern's belly had started to grow, validating all the rumours. Q sometimes wondered if that could have been him if not for the parenting discussion, and then berated himself for even thinking about it.

Until Bond.

A well-known womaniser and a total Lothario. Flippant, irreverent. Apparently indestructible. Loyal to a fault. England's best knight.

And he hadn't once acted disdainful towards his young Omega Quartermaster. Sceptical, certainly, but their bickering before the Fighting Temeraire (or bloody big ship, as Bond had succinctly put it) had been more about establishing rapport than trying to cow a younger Omega into backing down. He had appeared amused by Q's comebacks and his unwillingness to give an inch, and that had morphed into professional respect during the whole Skyfall fiasco and afterwards.

And vice-versa. Q had heard ad nauseam about how hard 007 was to handle, how he was impossible to look after, stubborn to the level of absolute pig-headedness, and how M was considering cutting him loose at least once every mission. He was an absolute menace to the entirety of Q Branch, unmindful of the equipment and the fact that it actually cost to produce, hell-bent on raining destruction wherever he went.

After reading his mission files, Q could hardly blame him. It had always struck him odd that just because double-ohs had a licence to kill they were somehow expected to find their own lives expendable. The fact that Bond refused to do so was unfairly held against him. Bond fought tooth and nail and always came back, even when the powers that be sometimes rather wished that he didn't.

But Bond was interested. Somewhat subtly, but also unapologetically, interested.

They had some-what bonded after the whole Skyfall incident, where Bond had shown himself to have an obsession for Raoul Silva that ran almost as deep as Q's. He hadn't known that Bond had any knowledge in computers, but apparently the man could hack, and had accessed all their files on Silva. Bond blamed himself for M, Q blamed himself for Silva, and they shared a need to know all there was to this man that had almost brought Six to its knees.

Q blinked himself awake when the doorbell rang. He groaned and sat up from where he had fallen asleep on the couch, his laptop now asleep too on the coffee table. He brushed at his face with his hands, blinking away the last remnants of sleep, and ambled to the hallway. He took a cursory look through the eye hole.

He opened the door and went for his most unimpressed look. “Double-oh Seven.”

“Quartermaster.” Bond frowned at the sight of him, then honest-to-God grinned. “Are you testing those contact lenses of yours? Or did you just crawl out of bed?” He glanced pointedly at Q's hair which Q knew was standing up a bit more than usual.

“What's with your inappropriate comments, I'll never know,” Q said, “but yes, I am testing them. And yes, my hair looks like this because I want it to. I'm so sorry it always looks fabulous. Except no, I really am not.”

He leaned on the door frame and couldn't withhold a yawn, which effectively ended his rant. He didn't even bother asking how Bond knew where he lived. He had a tidy two bedroom apartment in Kensington – address classified information – inherited from the previous Q after his death. Maybe that was how? Only, he couldn't imagine Bond badgering poor old Boothroyd after hours about office matters.

Bond held his hands up in surrender. “Consider my head bitten off. Can I come in?”

Q shrugged and went back inside, leaving Bond to close the door behind them. He cast a quick look around his apartment, hoping that nothing too embarrassing or incriminating was on display. The door to his bedroom was slightly open, but the bed was made and he kept all of his toys hidden in the drawers anyway. There were no used underwear lying about (because he had just loaded the washing machine the day before) and the only clutter around were his books (several in progress) and a plethora of mugs on all available surfaces.

“To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?” he asked, sitting down on the armrest of his little love seat.

Bond remained standing in the hallway; he was wearing a dark grey suit – the same he had been wearing that morning – now slightly dampened by rain. He looked very fit, and very alert. Q almost wanted to fidget under his stare.

“I'm just coming from HQ. I'm leaving to Morocco later tonight for a quick retrieval job. Return scheduled for the day after tomorrow. According to Tanner, there was no need to call you in because you supposedly have everything I need right here.”

“Wait, what?” Q blinked. “Okay, let's see.”

He rounded the couch and woke up his laptop, logging in and accessing Bond's mission files from the MI6 database. Tanner had already updated them.

“So you’re to retrieve a hard-drive from an agent stationed in Tangier. In-and-out. As if,” he muttered under his breath. “A standard kit should do it. Anything I need to know or take into account?”

Bond's brow quirked. “Such as?”

“Such as pulled muscles, old injuries playing up, whatever,” Q said seriously, his eyes flicking up from his laptop screen. “I'm not asking for fun, Double-oh Seven.”

“I never thought you were. Nothing new, I'm afraid. All in the medical files.”

“You know those files are confidential, I don't have access to them.”

“Do you really expect me to believe there is a single file in the MI6 database you don't have access to?” Bond asked. It was a rhetorical question and Q knew it. Q sometimes checked the files to see what the agents kept from him; apparently Bond had also guessed that he would.

“Fine. Stay there.”

He disappeared into his bedroom and accessed the hidden safe behind the framed Pulp Fiction poster across from his bed. He kept a standard issue Walther in there, just like Tanner knew that he did, and some ammo. It wasn't one of the fancy palm-coded ones, but it got the job done. He still hadn't issued Bond another one after he had fed it to some sort of lizard (not that he believed that particular fairytale, even if Eve too had vouched for it).

He returned to find that Bond still hadn't moved from where he was standing.

“I trust you have the radio?”

Bond nodded and Q handed him the gun. “Standard issue. Return everything in working order and I'll consider making you another palm-coded one.”

Bond nodded tersely and accepted the weapon, tucking it into the holster hidden near his armpit. Q noticed suddenly how close he was standing to the agent, but didn't want to draw Bond's attention to it, since he was leaving. Then Bond was looking at him, all concentration and danger. Q's heart did a little stutter inside his chest as he noticed the change in Bond's scent.

“Those glasses you wear day in and day out don't do your eyes any justice,” Bond said, and Q had to bite his lip from whimpering in response when he realised the precariousness of their situation.

This was an interested – all subtlety shot to hell – unbonded, very eligible Alpha alone in his flat with him, just a few feet from his bedroom, and suppressants or not, his body was taking definite notice. He swayed on his feet; suddenly Bond's arm was around his waist. This time Q did whimper, although he would deny it to his grave. He could have sworn Bond's pupils dilated at the sound, and he held very still, not daring to move a muscle.

Bond's eyes dropped to Q's mouth as he licked his lips despite himself, and tried to recall the branch head manual concerning interpersonal relationships and all the paragraphs about the estimated life expectancies of double-oh agents, but all he could think about was Bond's pheromones clouding the air about him.He almost couldn't breathe for fear of succumbing entirely.

“Christ, not now,” Bond muttered, yanking his arm back. Q had to stabilise himself against the wall as to avoid crumpling to the floor, his knees having forgotten how to hold him upright.

“I'll be back on Tuesday,” Bond said, eyes shockingly blue in the dim hallway. “We'll talk then.”

“I'll be in your ear until then,” Q said, and was relieved to hear that his voice sounded perfectly normal. It definitely didn't sound whimper-y, or like he wanted to roll over and present, at all.

“Tanner's handling me himself,” Bond said, sounding a bit regretful – or was that just wishful thinking on Q's part? “I imagine you'll have your hands full with Double-oh Six. He's causing trouble in Spain, last I heard.”

Q straightened himself. “Fine. Try not to get yourself killed in Morocco and I'll get you the specialized Walther for your mission in Turkey.”

Bond almost smiled at that. “Good night, Q.” His eyes flickered to the bedroom door and then back to Q so quickly that he could almost be certain it hadn't even happened.

Q bit his lip and cleared his throat. “Have a good one, Bond. I expect everything back in working order. Including yourself.”

Bond let himself out with an amused little snort. Q waited until the door closed after him to slide along the wall to sit on the floor. His heart was still pounding, and he took in several deep breaths to calm himself down. So Bond was no longer in the 'interested' category. He seemed to have taken a leap to 'intent on claiming'.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by @besanii - thank you! xx

II

“Double-oh Six, when I tell you to jump, I expect you to jump, is that clear?”

Q could have torn his hair out in frustration. There was a bomb going off in less than a minute and 006 was frolicking around as though there was no hurry, even after Q had directed him to the rooftop and told him to leg it.

“Hold your horses, Quartermaster, just a few more minutes –”

“You don't have a few minutes, the whole building is rigged to explode in thirty seconds,” Q said. “You're currently four metres above ground level, so I suggest you employ all your rolling techniques. I don't want you on that roof when the bomb goes off. Fifteen seconds now, Double-oh Six. Get off that bloody roof!”

Walker bit back a curse and for a while Q heard nothing but his panting through the comms. Then there was a sickening crunching sound that made him wince, before the bomb went off and he couldn't make out anything else from the other end.

“Double-oh Six,” he said sharply. “Come in.”

Silence reigned for a long minute. Then he heard a snappish, out-of-breath reply: “I'm running as fast as I can, but I landed badly on my ankle.”

“Yes, yes, I told you to roll,” Q said with marked lack of sympathy. He pulled up the data of the evac team. Still twenty minutes away. Shit. “Keep going, agent. And keep out of sight. Do you still have your gun?”

Walker replied in the affirmative.

“Good. As long as you're on the move, you won't be a sitting duck. Keep on the road. I'll keep an eye out for non-friendlies.” He paused. “Next time, Walker, I tell you to do something you'll do it and no bloody questions asked. I'm not telling you for fun.”

“I would never think you'd do anything for fun,” Walker said. “Alright, agent out. You don't need to listen in.”

“I have to listen in so that I'll know if something goes wrong in your end,” Q said. Right now all they had were the agent's microchip which placed him on the map, and the earwig. “We have no visuals right now. We don't have to talk. Just keep the line open.”

There was a muffled curse. “Fine.”

Q rolled his eyes and kept trying to pull up any live satellite feed of the area to better make out the surroundings. Walker was deep in the Spanish countryside and Q was all but blind now that 006 had left the compound. He trusted the agent to have enough common sense to hide at the sound of any approaching vehicle, but he hated not being able to see. Evac was now fifteen minutes away.

“So, where's Double-oh Seven?” Walker asked, startling Q.

“Not in headquarters.” Q gnawed on his lip in frustration as his second attempt to break into the nearest military satellite was rebuffed, and he had to amend his script. There had to be a weak point. There was always a weak point. It was just the matter of finding it, and using it.

Again a long silence. “Somewhere in Europe?”

Q straightened his glasses and glared at the monitor, willing his script to work. Fighting with military satellites was his absolute least favourite part of the job. “For all I know, he's somewhere in North Africa. Stop talking, Double-oh Six, you're badly out of breath.”

Walker spat out a curse. “I'm not out of breath. I'm in pain.”

“So less talk, and more running.” Q checked the communications from Evac. “Twelve minutes.”

With no live feed from a satellite or any other source, Q listened with a close ear to the sounds coming from the agent's end. He sounded very wheezy; Q made a mental note to ensure that the Medical examined him very thoroughly upon his return. The sound of a motor started to come closer and Q quickly checked the comms again.

“Not evac yet. Seek cover, agent.”

Judging by the sounds, Walker took a straight nose-dive into a ditch. Q winced again at the pained 'oomph' and waited to hear if gunfire followed. The vehicle seemed to pass Walker without engaging or even stopping, and he breathed out in relief.

“Fucking Range rover full of rich fucking brats,” Walker said after a few tense moments.

“Language, Double-oh Six,” Q said, trying one more time to gain access to the satellite feed, seething in silence since he knew that the agent didn't need the distraction. He simply made a mental note to work on his script whenever he had an hour or so to spare (a tall order in his line of work).

“Don't give me any language bullshit,” Walker said. “It's not like you're some typical shrinking Omega, right, Quartermaster?”

Q didn't reply; he finally had to concede defeat with the satellite. Any further attempts would likely bring the CIA banging on the door and M was already skittish after all the recent head-butting with the Americans.

“Apologies, agent, but we'll be blind until evac reaches you. Apparently the Americans have improved the security of their military satellites. Was about time, actually,” he added under his breath. “ETA evac seven minutes – six, if they're pushing it.”

“Tell them to fucking push it,” Walker wheezed. “Shit. Trouble.”

Q and R shared a tense look as the deafening roar of a motor vehicle drowned out all other audio from the agent's end. Q signalled to evac that they should start pushing it right now. There were shouts at the other end – in Spanish – and then several shots were fired. It wasn't the agent's Walther; Q knew the sound of that weapon going off in his sleep, and they could only hope that the hostiles were shooting blind.

Then Walker answered the fire and for a brief while all hell broke loose. There were more shouts, more grunts, more gunfire – Q went back to the satellite because god damn it he wasn't going to sit here, listening to his agent getting slaughtered and not do anything. The Americans were going to blow a bloody fuse, but that was a worry for another day.

“Sir, ETA evac three minutes,” R said. Q nodded.

“Let's try and keep him alive until then, shall we?”

Finally, finally, the view on his monitor turned into a grainy, greenish view of a sierra, and Q wasted no time in directing the satellite where the calamity was taking place. He thanked their luck that it was still in a good enough position to give them any usable feed, and as soon as they caught the skirmish, he spoke again to the earpiece.

“There's a ravine right on the other side of the road, behind that small hill at nine o'clock. If you can make it over there it'll be easy to hide until evac's on the scene.”

006 didn't answer at once, but fired several shots. Q held his breath as he saw two figures crumple and fall, and stay down. There was still at least one man that he could make out, crouching behind the vehicle's bumper; Walker was on the other side of the car. There could be others in hiding, and Q again urged the agent to retreat.

006's hobbling was painful even to look at as he stumbled on the hillside and crawled the rest of the way. Thankfully, the others didn't have night goggles on, because even though they were aware that he was on the move, they were turning in circles.

“Evac on the scene right about now,” R said, and right as Q leaned in to make out a vehicle arriving he was booted out of the satellite feed, and the screen went black.

“Shit,” Q said, and then to the agent. “Keep out of sight until told otherwise.”

R was in comms with the evac team leader, and gave Q a thumbs up after a few more tense seconds and the sound of weapons being fired. “All hostiles down.”

“Double-oh Six, are you still with us?” Q asked, his jaw tense. There was a moment of no reply, before Walker spoke.

“Yes. Even though I had to retreat like a pussy.”

“You know the thing about pussies, Double-oh Six? They have nine lives. Evac team on the scene, agent, and all hostiles down. Q out.” Q pulled out his chair and dropped down onto it, rubbing his face with his hands. He then raised his head and met R's eyes over the monitor.

“Tea, sir?” R asked with a knowing smile.

“Yes, please,” Q said, and watched his second-in-command go, sighing to himself. What he would have given to handle 007, instead.

Bond was pig headed, yes, but at least he never made Q repeat his instructions. Walker was a good agent, like all the double-oh's were, but their Alpha instincts ran deep enough for most of them to arrogantly assume that they knew better than their Omega handler. It was irritable, and completely pointless, and Q stubbornly refused to go to M because damn it, those agents would have to learn to deal. Deal with the fact that someone younger, whose sex was stereotypically perceived as weaker, was often the last thing standing between them and certain death.

And they did learn to deal. The more stubborn ones learned it more slowly, but they learned it too. Q was not just a gadget guy, not just the one handing out the goods. He was the brains behind the equipment more often than not, the quick thinker when things went south. That was something even the most reluctant agents had to admit.

Q was surprised when it was Tanner, and not R, who returned with his Overlord mug. He accepted the tea with a nod and curious look.

“Evening, Q. What happened to your glasses?” Tanner asked, indicating the lack of spectacles.

“Testing a new prototype,” Q said. “I want to ensure user comfort, so I'm quite keen to see how they hold up after 96 hours of use.”

Tanner made a face. “Better you than me,” he said. “Oh, and Double-oh Seven says hi.”

Q tried not to splutter into his mug and only half-succeeded. “What? Is he in Morocco?”

“That he is. Hot and grumpy. And bored as hell.”

Q pursed his lips together and shrugged, going for nonchalant. If Bond wanted to send rumours flying, that was his business, but Q wasn't going to add to the rumour mill. Not that Tanner was the gossiping sort, but Q wasn't sure where he stood with Bond and until he did, it was better to remain neutral.

“Double-oh Six should be –” he checked the comms, “–on a home bound plane right about now. ETA four hours. Lucky escape, if you ask me.”

“Covers getting blown at the very last minute do tend to make for interesting escapes,” Tanner said with a grin. “I heard you managed to cow him into submission quite beautifully.”

Q gave another shrug, but couldn't help a triumphant little grin that he hid in his tea. “They all listen to a voice of reason. In some cases I just need to turn up the volume a little.”

Tanner chuckled. “Do you mind if I handle Bond from your station?”

Q shrugged. It was fairly standard to do so, and there were no operatives out there right now who needed him. He could do all his other work in the office. “Knock yourself out. And don't let him bully you.”

Tanner gave him a long look. “Bully me? Do I have to remind you, Q, that I've been handling Bond for years now?”

“Yes,” Q said. “But trust me; he hasn't got any better. Or easier.”

He knew that Tanner rarely got any trouble from the Double-oh's; for all that he wasn't an Alpha or an ex-agent, he was still a very accomplished Beta with years of experience under his belt and zero tolerance for shenanigans. Even Bond didn't want to get on his bad side.

“You're clocking out soon?” Tanner asked, and Q nodded.

“Yes. No ops in the field right now that aren't handled by someone else, so no reason to accrue any more overtime. I'll just finish today's work and go.”

 

* * *

The following evening, Geraldine's parents brought her over to Q's flat, pleased that he was so eager to babysit the pup while they went to the theatre. They had been talking about it for weeks, and Alex had finally got Emma to agree that Geraldine would survive a few hours in Q's care without them. They had also agreed to spend the night at Q's guest room to avoid having to rouse the pup so late for a journey home.

Q accepted the slightly drowsy pup from her mother, an almost shy pleasure washing across his face. It seemed that she had got so much bigger since the christening, even though it had been barely more than a week. He held her close, pressing his nose against the downy hair on the top of her head, breathing in her sweet pup scent.

Alex took their stuff inside the guest room, leaving the two Omegas to discuss the childcare details.

“Have a lovely night, you two. I'll put her in bed at – what time did you say?”

Emma smiled. “She usually goes to bed by nine, so any time around then is fine. Now be a good girl, and please don't make a big fuss,” she said to the baby, bussing her cheek gently. She then raised her slightly teary eyes to meet Q's gaze. “The first time I'm going to be away from her since she was born,” she said quietly. “Please text me if there's anything? My mobile's on vibrate.”

“If anything comes up, I'll text you the very second,” Q promised. “It's just a few hours. I know how to take care of a pup, Emmy. Please don't worry.”

The other Omega smiled and then looked at her husband who was already eager to go. “I'll text you when we leave the theatre, okay?”

Q took the baby on a tour around his flat after her parents had left, holding her against his chest and telling her the history behind all his accumulated stuff. He heated her a bottle, following Emma's instructions, when she started to fuss, and settled on the couch to feed her, covering his lap and shoulder with an old tea towel just in case there were any spills. Geraldine was looking at him, more alert than before, and Q smiled down at her as she ate.

She had lovely cornflower blue eyes from her mother, and he could already tell she was going to be an absolute heart breaker in a few years; she was an Omega and a gorgeous one at that. She fussed when Q had to shift her a little after his bicep started to fall asleep, but calmed down again as the bottle was returned to her.

They had brought a play mat for her and some toys too. After burping her, Q put her down very gently on her back, and then sat back on his haunches and tried to entice her with a soft little toy. She kicked her feet and followed the motion of the toy with her eyes, gurgling as Q played peek-a-boo, hiding the toy behind his back and then making it magically appear again.

There was a knock on the door that startled him, and he gave her a curious look.

“Do you think mummy and daddy forgot something?” He hoped they hadn't changed their mind about the theatre after all all; now that he finally got to spend time with her again, he was loathe for it to end so soon.

Q picked her up carefully, remembering Emma saying that she never let her pup out of her sight because she would never forgive herself if something happened to her while she wasn't looking, and padded to the hallway and to the door. He looked through the eye hole and bit down on his lip, hard.

Bond.

He briefly toyed with the idea of not opening the door and pretending not to be home. Bond would take the piss endlessly if he saw Q caring for a pup; he could imagine all those brooding remarks that would follow. That plan was shot to hell, though, when he heard Bond clear his throat, saying that he knew Q was home so he might as well open the door.

“Shit,” Q said succinctly, and then shot a paranoid look at Geraldine as if she could understand the word. The baby looked up at him, distinctly unconcerned. Q sighed and opened the door one-handedly. “One word about the pup and I'll throw you out,” he warned.

“Not a word,” Bond promised. “You're still testing the contact lenses, I see.”

Q pursed his lips and allowed him to pass. “Ten points for observational skills,” he said, closing and locking the door.

Bond found himself a seat on the love seat and Q, not wanting to sit on the same couch for it really was rather small, seated himself on the carpet with the pup placed awkwardly on his lap. He couldn't help staring as Bond shrugged off his leather jacket, revealing a grey merino wool sweater underneath. Good Lord the man was gorgeous. He tried not to stare too openly; Bond's ego didn't need any more stroking.

“So how was Morocco?” he asked, and then almost blushed at the way Bond stared at him and the pup, as though committing the sight to memory.

“It was hot, and dusty, and only slightly more hospitable than last time,” he said distractedly.

“Any new wounds? Lost equipment? Conquests?” Q asked, dropping his gaze and focusing on the baby, who was clearly uncomfortable now where she was smushed against his chest. She let out a happier sound when he put her down on the mat again and she spotted the toy Q had played with earlier.

“The answer is no to all of the above,” Bond said. “I dropped the equipment at the branch. I was surprised it wasn't you manning the station.”

Q looked at him, unable to disguise his honest curiosity and slight trepidation. “So may I ask what you're doing here?”

“I promised we would talk after I came back,” Bond said simply.

Oh, yes. That.

“As you can see, I'm caring for a pup here,” Q said a little helplessly. “I'm not – I mean I can't, right now, if you had in mind –”

“Calm down, Q, I wasn't going to claim you on the play mat,” Bond said, and Q blushed all the way down to his neck. “I got the impression last time…no. I understand that you're still unbonded.”

Q nodded, a bit unsure where Bond was going with this. Surely he knew–? “Very much so.”

“May I ask why?”

Q took a steadying breath through his nostrils, reminding himself that there was no reason to go on the defensive right off the bat. “I haven't found the right person yet. As cliché as that sounds. And I'm getting older now, so it's not as easy as one might think. I also don't want to give up my job.”

Bond snorted laughter. “Older, you? From where I stand, there's little to distinguish you from the pup.” At Q's glare, he clarified. “I meant that as a compliment. And why would you give up your job?”

“Well, it is sort of expected, isn't it?” Q asked. “I mean, it's part of the process: bonding, having a pup, quitting work. I'm not so much down with the quitting part. I wouldn't mind a pup.” He looked away from Bond, focusing on Geraldine. “And bonding is to be expected if one wants a family, but I love my job. And I'm bloody good at it. It's going to take a lot more than just some – some Neanderthal Alpha telling me I have to stay at home to make me change my mind about working.”

“I doubt you would be attracted to such a person in the first place,” Bond said. “Someone who looked at you and didn't realise that what you do is a big part of who you are.”

“Do you?” Q asked boldly, now meeting Bond's eyes again. “I suppose we're talking about this to find out if there's any common ground, right? To see if we could be compatible? So maybe I should make it quite clear right away that I wish to have a pup. Several actually. I'd love a big family. I know that's traditionally more for the Alpha to decide but…I don't think I could be happy without.”

Bond was staring at him very intently now, and Q felt a shiver run down his spine in response. The Alpha's scent was heavy in the air, and Geraldine made a distressed little whine at the strange Alpha scent that wasn't her daddy. Q immediately turned to comfort her, and Bond toned it down with effort.

“I wouldn't make you go without,” Bond said after a little pause. “I would never want you unhappy.”

Q bit his lip and blinked. He ran his fingers down Geraldine's downy cheek. “You asked if I was getting broody. I am. I know that sounds like such an Omega thing to say. I want one of my own, and I'm not sure if that should happen with someone who's in danger of getting killed every time he walks out of the bloody door –”

He knew he was all but ranting. He stopped only when Bond got up from the love seat to kneel down beside him. He took Q’s face in his hands and kissed him. Q might have squeaked a little in surprise.

It wasn't the kind of rough, dominant kiss Q could have expected, but then Bond would never be so crass as to start claiming him in front of a pup. Q went almost slack and Bond's arms closed around him to keep him steady. Q tried to follow Bond's lips when he inevitably pulled away, already knowing that he wanted more. He needed Bond's lips back on his. Those arms around him. 

“I'm not all that easy to kill,” Bond said, his voice dropping an octave. “Especially not if I had a mate and a pup to come home to. I'd like to see anyone try and stop me.”

Q snorted. “You know there'll never be any shortage of baddies who would try,” he said, ignoring Bond's amused huff. “But I know that I have no more right to ask my partner to quit his job than he had to ask me quit mine.”

“So you'll just have to continue making sure that I'm well-equipped for the job,” Bond said with a slight smirk. “I have every confidence in you, Quartermaster.”

Q blinked slowly. “So, are you, are we, in agreement? About – bonding?”

“Unless that's too sudden for you,” Bond said. “If you want an old, broken double-oh agent as your mate and as the father of your pups.”

Sudden heat rushed through Q and he had to bite down on his lip to keep from letting out any embarrassing noises.

“I think you have the answer to that already,” he said. Bond's nostrils were continuously flaring as they took in the Omega's scent, heavy with pheromones, excitement and interest. He did want Bond, even if it was inconvenient and practically insane; but god damn it, Q wanted those genes for his pups.

“I can tell you want me.” Bond said, his voice guttural. “And believe me, Q, if you didn't have that pup to care for I'd show you just how much I want you, too.”

Q's lips formed a soundless 'oh' and he busied himself with the pup, lifting her by the armpits and raising her bottom so that he could sniff it. She needed a nappy change – Bond's nose wrinkled briefly – and Q rose, thankful for the interruption. He had the giddy feeling that pup or no, they would have ended up mating on Geraldine's play mat sooner rather than later unless one of them removed themselves from the situation.

“I'll go and change her,” he said softly, cradling the pup against his chest, not missing how Bond tracked his every movement. He wanted to preen a little, to show off. “I have some whiskey in the cupboard above the sink. Please help yourself.”

He took the nappy bag from the floor and brought Geraldine to the bathroom for a quick change, focusing on her and very carefully not thinking about Bond, at all. She seemed unconcerned by the whole affair and Q smiled at her after he was done, bending to kiss the bottoms of her feet softly before dressing her up again.

“Good as new, right?” he said, and she pursed her lips as though to think about it. Q took the used nappy to the rubbish bin in the kitchen, and made a mental note to take it out before going to bed.

Bond was sitting in the living room with a glass of whiskey. There was also a mug with a teabag in it on the coffee table. Q was pleasantly surprised that Bond had found the kettle and his tea supplies.

“Is the tea for me?”

“Yes. You seem to be fond of it.” Bond looked curiously at the pup who was starting to look a little drowsy. “I don't spot any family resemblance..?”

Q sat down and put her back on the mat again, tickling her feet. “That's because there's not any. I've known her mum, Emmy, since we were about five years old. We've been friends ever since. I'm Geraldine's godfather, actually.”

“You look good with the pup,” Bond said. “Very... practised.”

Q's smile was a little wry. “To be expected of an Omega, right?”

“Well, it is actually quite unexpected,” Bond said. “I looked at you and thought, he's beautiful and brilliant, and not bonded and with a pup, he probably doesn't want any part of that.”

Q snorted, although he was warmed by the compliment. “Well. The Alphas one meets in this line of work aren't usually the most progressive. Some of them would probably want me to quit before they even deigned to consider dating me.”

The exact words of 003, to be precise, but there was no need to tell Bond that.

Bond's eyes crinkled at the corners. “I'm not sure I'm any more progressive than the others, but I do know that you're the best handler that I've had, and whenever I have you in my ear I have every confidence I'm going to make it out alive.” He took a sip of his whiskey and pursed his mouth. “And the sentiment is shared by Double-oh Six. Walker owes you his life after Sevilla.”

“He and all the rest of the double-ohs,” Q said. “But I appreciate the sentiment. James.” The name felt unfamiliar in his mouth, but Bond looked pleased.

He took a careful sip of his tea, and gave a grateful little moan at the tang that hit his taste buds. Bond looked faintly amused.

“You really do like the stuff, don't you?”

Q nodded. “I have a stomach that upsets easily. So sometimes I just skip meals and have tea instead. Never lets me down.”

“I did wonder about you being so...thin,” Bond said. “Come here.”

“Rude,” Q said, but did as Bond asked.

He came to a stop before Bond, on his knees, and drew in a shaky breath as Bond's hands lowered to sit on his waist, thumbs brushing across his stomach, almost meeting in the middle. He felt slightly embarrassed, knowing that his stomach was practically concave and some people found such extreme thinness to be off-putting, but Bond's eyes bore into his intensely as he considered the fact that he could practically wrap around Q's waist with his hands.

“You're tiny,” he said. “Christ, Q, you're so bloody tiny.”

“Not all of us live at the gym,” Q said a touch defensively; it was something of a sore point. “I actually like it. I'm used to it, I mean,” he said, but Bond shushed him.

“I like it too, a lot.”

Bond pulled him closer by the waist and kissed him again, harder than before. Q fought to keep his balance, and to keep from ending up in a heap in the agent's lap. Bond's mouth covered his and tasted him deep, and Q shuddered with sudden want that almost had him reeling.

He was still on hormone suppressants and would be until they agreed to bond, but he was doubting their effectiveness right now as his pants started to get damp. He'd never heard of a heat being triggered with just a kiss while on suppressants, but right now anything seemed possible. Bond's hands tightened around him as the pheromones hit and Q tried to keep a clear head, tried to remember that they couldn't because he was actually in charge of caring for a pup right now, and almost didn't care.

“I'd better leave before I end up knotting you,” Bond said, pupils almost fully blown. Q was feeling rather light-headed, himself. “When?”

Q licked his lips, now swollen from the ferocious kiss, and tried to clear his mind. “Weekend,” he said, “I have the weekend off. Trying to kill my overtime log.”

“And you're on hormone suppressants?” Bond asked. “It might be prudent to go off them. Although I'm not sure if I can handle you in heat.” He looked a bit amused, and very aroused, at the idea.

Q's mouth quirked in bemusement at the mention of the suppressants. He had just finished his first mandatory check-up at Medical when the nurse had given him a packet of pills, and explained at his wide-eyed look that that it was a MI6 wide workplace regulation that all unbonded Omegas had to be on hormone suppressants so as not to wreck the working atmosphere and distract their colleagues.

And now Bond wanted him off of them. It was three days before the weekend, and Q wagered that by Friday people would be staring at him, and some of them would be approaching. He could, however, delegate all the debriefing and equipping stuff to R to avoid being alone with any of the agents. He had some new weapons that still needed final testing, and he should be finished testing the contact lenses by then, so he could work on the report in his office. All in all, workable. He would have to alert M, though, which wasn't something he looked forward to with any enthusiasm.

“I'll get off them,” Q said. “And, James? What about birth control?”

That was one of the practices that still carried the remnants of bygone ages; for all other advancements in sex equality, a bonded Omega still needed their Alpha's consent to acquire a prescription for birth control.

“I thought you wanted to get with a pup,” Bond said, his hands squeezing Q's waist again. “Although for the life of me I can't imagine how you'll fit a pup in here. Or two.”

Something inside Q tightened and he bit his lip unhappily. “I'll manage,” he said quietly. “My mother is the same build and she had three.”

“Hey. That wasn't meant as a criticism,” Bond said firmly. “You're lovely.”

“I know I don't exactly have any child-bearing hips,” Q said defensively. In fact, he actively knew he was very thin and narrow, his hips still boyishly lanky although he was years past puberty. “But I've discussed it with several doctors, and none of them thought it should cause any problems. The pup will likely be slightly smaller than usual, but that's all. Like I said, I take after my mum.”

“Q. I wasn't criticising your build. It was just a remark born out of a case of nerves.” Bond’s thumbs rubbed soothing circles on Q's flat belly, trying to undo any unintended offence.

Q thawed a little. “Nerves, you? Now I know you're lying.”

“I haven't been bonded to anyone before,” Bond said, his eyes searching Q's and holding his gaze. “Is it so inconceivable that the notion of doing so could make me nervous?”

“I suppose not. And I have them too. As for the birth control, no, I don't want it. I would want to get pregnant at the earliest opportunity.”

He felt slightly embarrassed saying that, but it was better to say it than to end up on birth control thanks to a misunderstanding.

Bond's hands tightened again. “Christ, when you say things like that it's my first instinct to make it happen right now. I should go.” He pulled Q in for another kiss, but made this one short. “Now take care of that pup. Soon enough you'll be caring for your own.”

Q nodded rather shakily and got up, but didn't see Bond off; Geraldine was kicking her feet and making grabby hands at them, not showing any signs of distress at being ignored for the last few minutes. Bond shouldered his jacket and, with a last intense look at the Omega and the playing pup, left.

Q picked Geraldine up and covered her face with little kisses, excited at the thought that he could be pregnant as soon as this weekend, that he could have a pup of his own to care for and love in as little time as nine months, and it would be James's.

~

Emma texted him around ten-twenty that evening, to tell him that they were in a cab and on the way over. Geraldine had fallen asleep on his lap as he watched the news on telly. He had taken her to the travel cot and tucked her in, leaving the door open so that he would hear if she woke up and got distressed. It had been a lovely evening; he had bathed her, and changed her into her little pyjamas, fed her and told her all about Bond, since he was fairly certain she wouldn't gossip.

How Bond had been very subtly, and very carefully courting him after it had become obvious that Jack from accounting was out of the picture; so subtly in fact that it had taken both R and Tanner commenting on the fact that the agent seemed rather smitten for Q to even notice. Q had brushed it off at the time since he'd wagered that if Bond truly were interested, he would be forming a full-blown charm campaign instead of settling for gentle flirting, and all Q had deduced so far had been that Bond was slightly interested. But since it was Bond, and having sex with half of the population seemed to be in his bloody job description, he was probably 'slightly interested' in everyone, R and Tanner included.

But to think that Bond desired to mate, and have pups? That was well beyond anything Q could have ever imagined; that Bond would be interested in sex was all but given, but Bond wishing to settle down with a mate would have sounded ridiculous and frankly unbelievable if he hadn't heard it from the man himself. To think that he would be having sex with James Bond! Q felt his own excitement was slightly ridiculous. Sex was something Bond did. It wasn't something that Q had ever done. He could only hope that his body would know what to do.

He saw to that his guests had everything they needed before retiring for the night, and then locked the door and turned off the lights, heading to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face. Then he pulled off his t-shirt.

Q very pointedly ignored his packet of suppressants that sat on the shelf while he brushed his teeth. He rather hoped that he would go into heat by the weekend. The things he'd read online about mating while in heat, and bonding while in heat, made him anticipate it all the more.

After he was done with his toilette, Q stood in front of his bathroom mirror, the fluorescent light above the sink bringing his pale skin to stark relief.

He didn’t much think about his looks usually, with much more pressing matters weighing on him every single day, but now that Bond had made his interest known he couldn’t help the spike of insecurity. He had seen what kind of women Bond seduced: beautiful, curvaceous, pampered. How in hell was one bespectacled, underweight boffin supposed to compete with that?

He had enjoyed Bond’s hands on his body, very much so, but what would happen if (when) he took off his clothes, and Bond got a good, long look at his scrawny body and narrow hips? Would he be put off? He didn’t have a body that invited advances – that much was obvious – and the distinct lack of curves didn’t imply much in the way of fertility, either.

Deciding he needed to look into prenatal vitamins the first thing in the morning, he shook his head at his mirror image and turned off the light. Once in bed, he stared at the ceiling, trying to reconcile with the fact that, barring a nationwide crisis that would see him accruing more overtime at the branch, come this weekend he would be mated to James Bond.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thanks to @besanii for beta. xx

III

“Well, whoever would have guessed that underneath all those natty jumpers hid an actual, honest-to-God GQ model?”

Eve, Q thought, had to be remarking on the fact that he had finally thrown his mustard cardigan in the laundry bin, and gone for a dark red jumper instead, pairing it with charcoal grey trousers. Clearly this was a winning combination, because R had stopped to stare on his way in, and Lisa from the social committee had actually choked on her coffee, and Steve, Jack's colleague from accounting, had all but walked into a wall when he walked past. People were weird.

“Miss Moneypenny.” Q acknowledged her without raising his eyes from the monitor screen where he was working on his satellite hacking script. It was woefully out of date, and guaranteed not to work the next time he started to work on any American-owned satellite. They learned fast. “One tries to keep up with the rest of the staff, you know.”

It was a very light jab at the fact that she dressed to the nines every day; today she was looking especially gorgeous in a powder blue dress and matching stilettos. Gorgeous and deadly, Q amended, noting her toned arms and her gait as she stepped inside his office.

“I didn't know you owned a jumper that had less than three colours,” Eve said. She picked something up from his desk and put it back quickly when it made an ominous clinking sound. “I'm impressed. Any particular reason?”

Q turned to her with his best unimpressed look, but she wasn't fooled. Instead, she grinned, turning her full focus on him.

“I bloody knew it. The old dog's nothing but tenacious. Where is he, by the way?”

Q tried not to blush at her astuteness. Of course she would have guessed about him and Bond. Q couldn't help wondering if there had been gossip that he simply hadn't been aware of after all. But of course, this was Eve, who not only knew everything that transpired at Six, but also knew him personally.

“To my understanding, he's taking mandatory physical and psychological evals. Should keep him busy for the next couple of days.”

Not that he didn't expect Bond to evade the psychologist. Eve smiled at him knowingly, and then handed him a stack of papers.

“And now in office business, Mallory wants you to submit your branch budget proposal by next Tuesday. I know it's your weekend off, but that's the word.”

Q looked at the sheaf of papers like it was a living viper, taking it from Eve with marked reluctance and quickly depositing it on the general mess of his desk. Budget planning was the worst part of his job, hands down. He took a moment to envision a budget proposal software that would take everything into account, from staff to active ops to weapons under testing, all in real time. Eve noticed his faraway look and smiled.

“I know you can do it,” she said. “And Q?”

“Yes Eve?” Q said, still occupied with thinking about the code. It would take an all-nighter, likely several, but he would rather spend it coding than staring at the numbers uselessly.

“Your scent is a bit... distracting. From an unbonded Alpha's point of view,” she said as gently as she could. “Luckily for you, woodland fawn isn't my type.”

Q blinked at her, wide-eyed, and the ex-field agent laughed. “You just proved my point, darling. Just be wary of those double-oh's. M will pitch a fit if Double-oh Seven ends up maiming any more than two.”

Q took a perfunctory sniff of himself, to her amusement. He'd skipped the pill yesterday, and he'd calculated that it would take two days at least for his chemical balance to shift. Apparently he'd been wrong. God damn it. Bond had probably not helped matters any with kissing him senseless not once but twice the previous evening. If he went into heat in the middle of his branch, he would never be able to face his minions again. (Except R. R he feels he can trust to deal with an apocalypse. R handles 003 on a regular basis, besides. A branch head in heat probably wouldn't even make a blip on his radar.)

“I appreciate the heads-up,” he said. “I was hoping it wouldn't be detectable quite so soon, but I'm afraid it can't be helped.”

“You should probably order your groceries to be delivered, and take the company car home,” Eve advised, not unsympathetic. “No Tube for you today, darling. Or the rest of the week.”

Q nodded. It grated somewhat that he would have to restrict his activities simply because there were Alphas out there 'who couldn't help themselves' with unbonded Omegas. However, it was a fact of life and ignoring it could end up in severe hurt. The hormone suppressants made the trademark Omega scent very unremarkable, which was why a lot of Omegas were put on them as soon as they entered puberty. Q was something of a late presenter – their family doctor had said it might have something to do with his borderline malnourished state – and hadn't been in need of suppressants until he'd entered employment at MI6.

Eve was one of the very few Alphas who had actually befriended Q; she was no less deadly, or dominating than any of the other Alphas MI6 employed, but she had a far more humorous outlook on the whole thing and also on life in general. Personally Q was glad that she had decided that being a field agent wasn't her thing; he genuinely enjoyed her company and liked having her around the branch. They often went out to lunch together; on a few memorable occasions, she'd had to pretend to be his bonded Alpha to ward off any extra interest.

“Lunch today?” she asked.

“I think it might be wise for me to have lunch here,” he said a bit apologetically. Come to think of it, maybe all those stares and all that attention hadn't been just because of the clothes. The thought that he might be drenching all over the branch and maybe even the floor with his Omega pheromones was slightly unnerving.

“I'll order something in for you,” Eve said. “Okay, I'll leave you to your tinkering. Please lock that door before any of the double-oh's come by. And damn, is that man lucky or what.”

Q bit his lip and didn't say anything, but glanced at her from beneath his fringe. Eve laughed and patted his shoulder.

“You woodland fawn. You're really quite lucky we're not each other's type. I'd eat you up.”

“Why do I need to cite workplace harassment guidelines to every single Alpha that crosses that doorstep?” Q wondered aloud, smiling as Eve huffed and laughed, promising to drop him something to eat shortly.

“It's okay, I have tea,” he called to her retreating back and finished the dregs of his Earl Grey.

R dropped by a bit after ten to ask if he'd happened to see 006's mission report lying around. Q suppressed the urge to bang his head against his keyboard.

“Don't tell me he printed out the form and then filled it in with pencil again.”

R nodded. They had a perfectly fine mission report form for the agents to fill that would automatically be saved to the database, but some of them stubbornly looked for a working printer to print them out, and left them somewhere in the Q Branch for the boffins to handle. They usually slunk in when Q wasn't physically present because they knew that the Quartermaster blew a fuse each time the computer-challenged Alphas went directly against his explicit orders.

“I'm going to put out a memo,” Q said, “and make bloody sure that each and every one of them knows that the next person to return their mission report in paper form is going out with a bloody water pistol. We spent so much money and so many working hours on implementing the bloody thing, the least they can do is actually learn how to do it online. Argh. I could just strangle someone.”

R listened to him rant and smiled. “I'll contact Walker and ask him about it. Maybe Double-oh Seven could show him how to do it. I heard he took to it quite quickly.”

Q didn't say anything. Bond had 'taken to it' quite quickly simply because he'd parked himself next to Q's work station and had refused to move until Q showed him how to retrieve the form, fill it in and save it so that it was accessible to Tanner, M, and all other personnel who had the clearance. Q had pretended to be annoyed at the whole affair, but had finally ended up doing what the agent asked.

R remained in the doorway after the exchange. Q raised his head when he realised that his second-in-command was perhaps waiting for him to react. “Yes?”

R looked a little uncomfortable. “If there's something I need to start doing, or preparing for – or if I need to start putting in more hours…you only need to say, sir.”

Q frowned, still partly thinking about the script and partly about annoying tech-incompetent agents. “What do you mean?”

“Well, sir, this is very... untoward I suppose, since you haven't said anything, but if you're planning on – some kind of leave, or other arrangements, I will do my absolute best to keep the branch running in the meantime.”

Something clicked. “Oh.” 

He clearly smelled like someone preparing to mate. Someone who would in all likelihood announce his pregnancy before Christmas, parental leave somewhere around June, and then fuck off to leave the branch temporarily leaderless. Which was something he was sort of planning for. Hoping for.

It was too delicate a subject to discuss so freely; Q settled for being vague.

“I suppose we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, right?” he said. “I don't have any announcements to make, yet. But you'll be among the first ones to know.”

R looked pleased. “Thank you, sir.”

Q returned to his work after that, pausing only to wolf down the tuna sandwich Eve had brought around, and down endless cups of tea late into the night.

He stumbled home a bit after one in the morning, brushed his teeth and fell head-first into bed. He took a moment to think about the message James had sent him earlier: Waiting for the weekend. It sent giddy shivers up and down his body, and he couldn't help wondering if they were crazy. They were compatible and well-matched, but they weren't in love (yet?). They would be creating a pup together, and – Good Lord, they would have to share a flat too. They were crazy.

“I'll think about it tomorrow,” he slurred aloud, mashing his face in the pillow. Five seconds later he was fast asleep.

~

The rest of the week passed quickly. Q sequestered himself in his office and left R to deal with the agents. He deemed the contact lenses had been tested long enough, so he slipped them into a reader, which then transcribed the collected data into actual footage and transferred it into his laptop. He watched through some of it –everything from his day to day life in the past four days – and browsed through the footage to see how the recording function had held up in the shower (well), how it reacted to first light in the morning when he opened his eyes (well enough).

He lingered over the part where he was looking at himself in the mirror, his own hands touching where Bond's had rested on his waist so possessively.

Pleased that the recording function worked so well against the expectations of many of his colleagues, R included, he encrypted the footage and saved it on his laptop. He worked on the report for the rest of the day, concluding that the user experience didn't differ from the experience of using regular contact lenses, that the eyes weren't irritated from continuous use even if one didn't remove them for the night, and that the recorded footage was clear enough for most uses. He made a note that contact lenses with live feed were a logical next step after securing the funds for its development, as well as a portable reader an agent could bring to the field with him.

It was Friday night, but he lingered at the office, knowing that Bond would be coming to his flat later. He was nervous and slightly afraid of what would happen. Like most people, he had watched enough porn online to educate him on the basics, but the ones that centred around heats, faked or not, all looked a bit frightening. He wasn't always sure if the Omegas' screams and whimpers were born of pleasure or pain.

He was willing to bet that Bond had a massive cock and knot.

Q could feel the heat coming, but he wasn't quite there yet. There was a slight itch somewhere inside him, a restlessness, and he was having to change pants many times during the day because he was seeping all the time now. He also had to avoid all the Alphas in the branch and within MI6, not to mention the general public. Even Eve had told him that type or no type, she wasn't going to tempt herself by spending time in his general vicinity until he was safely bonded to someone else, and been absent from the branch since Thursday morning.

He told the night shift to have a good evening, and closed his office door. When he came back on Monday, it would be quite different.

~

It wasn't what he had expected.

Q got home using the company car, well aware that he was drawing looks from the driver via the rear-view mirror and not caring one whit. He felt very hot and slightly out of breath. He very distinctly wanted something big and fit to rub against. To hold him down. (If the driver hadn't been a Beta, he would've perhaps thrown an inviting glance or two his way, fit or not, even though he knew his body was preparing itself for Bond.)

He managed to throw his satchel bag and coat somewhere where they wouldn't get under foot. Everything felt a little bit unreal; he drank a glass of water to ground himself, and just to have something to do. Pressing the cool glass against his hot forehead, he realised he was slowly succumbing into a kind of incoherency.

His pants and trousers were soaked completely through, but Q couldn't even bring himself to care. He would soak through all of his clothes anyway, and to change them would be a waste of time. In fact, he was tempted to shed them completely and go bare, because even the softest cotton now felt too scratchy and stifling against his overheated skin.

In one of his more lucid moments, he had to admit that he hadn't been prepared, at all. Sure, he had changed the sheets on his bed and, knowing Bond's snobbish tastes, purchased wine and candles, artisan breads and cheeses and steaks for dinner, but he hadn't expected to lose his faculties quite so completely. He could only try and imagine what would happen once Bond walked through the door. He fervently hoped he wouldn't accost the man where he stood. He might perhaps be an easy lay for Bond, but that didn't mean he had to act desperate.

Bond came around at around eight, and he wasn't wearing a suit this time; he was in black jeans, and in the grey merino wool sweater from before that Q thought brought out his eyes so gorgeously. The moment Q opened the door Bond was on him without so much as a word of hello, his hand in Q's hair, pulling his head aside so that he could bring his mouth to his neck to breathe in his scent and to nuzzle. Q was whimpering before Bond's scent had even fully hit him. It drowned out everything else.

This was an Alpha intent on claiming. Q was simultaneously hit with the urge to shed his clothes and present to his Alpha, so he allowed himself to go limp in Bond's arms and to let him do what he willed.

“Show me,” Bond said, his voice guttural and his pupils blown wide.

Q blushed all the way down to his chest as he unbuttoned his shirt with trembling fingers. He pushed the shirt open to reveal his chest. Bond was staring at him and breathing heavily, his hands hanging at his sides as though to keep from tearing Q's clothes to shreds.

Q bit his lip and opened his belt and zipper, pushing his trousers down to his knees and his ankles, before stepping out of them entirely. His pants were soaking wet by now, and he was shaking from the way Bond was looking at him, and from Bond's pheromones hitting him like a tidal wave.

Q pushed his pants down his legs, blushing as he felt the amount of slick between his legs – he was practically dripping. He didn't have the time to apologise or to say anything before Bond was on him again, and had hoisted him over one shoulder as though he weighed nothing. Bond took him to his bedroom, setting him back on his feet before starting to undress himself.

Q crawled up on the bed on all fours and presented, slightly shakily but proudly, knowing that he was all that Bond wanted in that moment. He tried to focus enough to admire Bond's body as the Alpha tore his own clothes off, his cock already engorged, muscles thick. A flash of excitement and fear tore through Q and he trembled in anticipation.

“You are so fucking beautiful, Q,” Bond said, running his hand down Q's flank. “You are the most beautiful Omega I've ever seen and you're mine.”

The level of possessiveness shouldn't have turned him on. It definitely shouldn't have made him happy enough to try purring.

“Yes,” Q said, voice unsteady. He keened when Bond turned him around on his back so that they could kiss. The kiss was welcome, even if it confused him a little that Bond wasn't already pushing into him. He didn't want Bond coddling him, not now; he didn't with the people he bedded on missions. “Just, get on with it,” he gasped. 

Bond broke the kiss to pull his head aside and fasten his mouth on the bonding mark right below the edge of his jaw, biting down hard.

A sharp pain seared through him and Q gasped, whining as Bond then licked over the bite, his tongue hot and scratchy in all the right ways.

“I'm not going to tear into you,” Bond said against his neck. “I can control myself that much.”

“Oh, God, what if I – if I can’t–” Q panted, and then whined again as Bond ground their hips together.

Bond's cock was hot as a poker and nearly as hard. He was bigger than Q, which was to be expected, and Q carefully touched it, running his hand down the shaft to the base. He felt it with curious fingers, and imagined it inside him, the knot growing to keep Bond's semen in. He jerked and came with just Bond's mouth on his neck and his hand on the Alpha's cock. His own moans sounded utterly ruined to his own ears, and Bond hadn't even really started.

“Sorry, I–” he stammered. Bond immediately shushed him.

“I'll make sure you come again before all this is done,” he said, and Q trusted him.

Bond helped him lay down on his back and then wrap his legs around Bond's hips, his thighs shaking uncontrollably. He was continuously dripping now, the slick covering his thighs, his backside and his duvet probably (he didn't bother to check). Bond brought his hand down to his entrance and slid a finger inside. It went easily enough, thanks to the lubrication, and he added another soon after. Q was a sobbing mess, wanting and needing Bond filling him, wanting his cock and his knot stretching him.

He sobbed out in genuine relief when Bond guided his cock to Q's entrance and pushed in. Q couldn't withhold a whimper at the burning stretch, his fingers clawing at Bond's back involuntarily. The stretch mellowed soon to a lovely pressure while Bond was still on the first push. Q mewled as the forming knot caught on his entrance, and pulled.

“Give it to me Bond give it, I want it all of it,” he sobbed, and Bond pushed him bodily against the mattress, driving the air out of his lungs. Q gasped for breath as he was speared to his core, and Bond was so bloody huge, and so hard – it wasn't going to fit, it was going to tear him apart – he grunted and mewled and whimpered as Bond bottomed out and didn't stop there, but kept going until all that existed was the Alpha's cock claiming him, pushing in and out.

“So gorgeous, Q, so perfect.” Bond's voice sounded strained. “So fucking perfect on my cock.”

Q had heard Bond's dirty talk a dozen or so times over the comms without really paying attention, but that voice was doing things to him now, and he whined, unable to formulate a reply.

He tried to hang on, he tried to wrap his arms around Bond, but it was impossible to hold on to a rutting Alpha, so he finally ended up grasping the backs of his thighs to keep himself open. Q couldn't withhold a scream when he came, his entrance clamping down on the cock inside him. Bond grunted and forced his rising knot in through the contracting muscle, and Q was caught between pain and the waves of pleasure washing through him. Then Bond was coming too, his knot swelling until it was impossible to move.

“Oh, fuck,” Bond said, burying his face in Q's fringe, their heaving chests pressed against one another. Q was getting crushed under his weight but he didn't really care.

Q's mind spun on nothing, and he shifted a little, clenching around the hard knot now lodged inside him, biting back the little gasp of pain. He had read online that once knotted, an Alpha could come several times, and he wanted to try it. So he clenched and shifted, and gnawed lightly on the bonding mark on Bond's neck, running his hands up and down his flanks, making little mewling noises as the knot inside him shifted and dragged.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Bond's voice was a sated rumble in his ear, his heartbeat fast and strong against Q's. Q felt quite silly all of a sudden because in all his previous planning and preparation he hadn't been able to imagine this; this shared space, shared physicality, Bond's chest and heart against him, their sweat cooling together, their breaths evening out together.

“No, I was just hoping to encourage you to another orgasm,” he said candidly, glad that he had regained his ability to speak. He slid his hand down to fondle Bond's crotch and his balls, but then Bond took his hand, removing it from his crotch, and placed it on his hip.

Q felt blood rushing to his face, embarrassed for not knowing that apparently Bond didn't like to be touched there. Then Bond kissed him.

“Don't think so much, Q,” Bond said, pulling back a tiny bit. “Kiss me on the mark.”

Q latched onto Bond's bonding mark with his lips, suckling lightly before biting down just as his hips started to partner Bond's gentle thrusts. A surprised little sound escaped him when Bond suddenly froze, his breath hitching, before giving a few harder thrusts. Q made a happy noise when he realised that Bond was coming again, and tightened himself around Bond's cock, intent on keeping him inside as long as humanly possible.

“You are trying to kill me,” Bond said as soon as he could breathe again.

“I'm not. I just want to have a proper mating,” Q said, and shifted a little.

His legs were splayed so wide around the Alpha that it was putting some strain into his hips. The image that formed inside his head was all at once sobering and strangely arousing; him on his back with his legs splayed, Bond's bulk cradled between them with his cock and knot inside him, his body pressing the slighter Omega into the mattress.

Q felt oddly vulnerable when Bond finally had to pull out, but Bond didn't leave him to fidget long. He lay down on Q's bed and pulled the Omega to him, continuing to breathe in his scent and comb Q's hair with his fingers.

“Do you want something?” Q asked after gathering his wits. “To drink?”

Bond snorted laughter. “You're wiped out. I know where you keep the whisky. I'll bring you water.”

“Bring something to eat too? And do hurry please.” Q hated to sound like he was pleading, but he knew he needed Bond in him at least once more before calling it a night.

Bond brought him his water and a packet of crisps, and looked on with a smirk as the Omega dug in. Q gave him a very half-hearted glare which he knew was further ruined by the fact that he couldn't take his eyes off of Bond's sculpted torso. His pecs were ridiculous. Mouth-watering, but absolutely ridiculous. And his scent was still driving Q crazy. He put away the half-eaten packet of crisps and followed his nose to Bond's armpit, nuzzling. Bond might've jumped a bit as Q's tongue came out to taste.

~

The second time, Bond wanted to try it from behind and Q got in the position readily enough. They propped Q's hips up with a pillow, causing him to moan at how deep Bond reached in that position, his cock feeling endlessly long as he slid in and out. Q bit down on his fist as he came, desperate to avoid making any more embarrassing noises. Bond knotted him deeper this time, the stretch still hurting but not quite as much as before.

Bond blanketed his body with his own afterwards, the knot still firmly in place, and placed kisses on Q's nape and neck. Q smiled and reached for Bond's hand with his own, squeezing it in appreciation, content. The damnable itch was still there, but at least he was in full possession of his faculties again. He fell asleep with Bond still inside him, and didn't awaken even when Bond slowly pulled out of him some thirty minutes later.

~

Q blinked awake well after his normal hour on Saturday, the memories rushing through his brain all at once. Bond. He was in bed with Bond, and he was already turning to his mate unconsciously.

He felt sore and slightly light-headed, purring when Bond's arms came to cradle him, and pulled him up against him, his body firm even in sleep. Bond woke up with a jerk when Q bent down to take a nipple between his lips and sucked hard.

The heat hadn’t quite reached its peak before they were already in the business of sating it. They tried other positions, too, but riding was difficult when one subconsciously tried to flinch away from the knot, and it was hard to get the needed momentum to get the knot inside when doing it sideways. Q was more than happy with missionary with a pillow stuffed under his arse, because it left his hands free to touch Bond, and himself when James asked him to, and to feel the glorious pressure of James's muscled body against his own.

They progressed to first name basis sometime during the day; it felt strange to call him James instead of Bond or his call sign, but stranger yet was Bond calling him Daniel. They had both looked a bit bewildered the first time Bond tested the name out loud, and Q told him to call him either that or Q because he didn't care either way. (“Just not Danny, please.” “How about Dan?” “No.”)

Bond went out sometime around six to get some cigarettes and coffee (Q had neither in his flat) and Q used the time to check his e-mail and take a quick shower. Their accumulating musk was far from unpleasant, but the feeling of stickiness and his own come drying on his body wasn't very appealing. Bond's stamina was indeed quite impressive; they had managed to mate two times already that day, and Q was quite looking forward to a third. If he wasn't pregnant by the time Monday rolled in, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying.

When Bond came back, Q surprised him in the hallway by kneeling on the carpet and opening his jeans. He pulled out Bond's cock and took the head in his mouth just as his other hand slid lower to fondle the forming knot. He had never fellated anyone before, and his mouth wetted at the flavour and the feel of Bond's cock on his tongue and lips. Bond groaned and buried his hands in Q's hair, guiding him into a slightly quicker pace. Q flicked his tongue around the head, luxuriating in the grunts coming from Bond as he enjoyed Q's mouth.

“Do you want me to come in your mouth?” Bond asked, his hands now fisted in Q's hair,pulling him back a little. “I could come all over your face and then make you lick me clean.”

Q's mouth made a slurping noise as he pulled off. “Inside me. I want you knotting me again.”

He bent over the couch's backrest and pulled his pants down to his knees, presenting. Bond came up behind him and pushed in. He was so slick that the sounds coming from the mating were bordering on obscene. Bond kept telling him how beautiful he was, how tiny he was, and how they were going to have so many beautiful and brilliant pups because he would keep Q knocked up for years.

Q's hips thrust up as he came, and he cried out softly as Bond came too, his knot locking them together.

~

 

They lounged on the couch, with Q's head resting on Bond's chest and listening to his heartbeat that was slow and strong. Bond played idly with Q's hair, twirling the locks around his fingers and pulling intermittently. Q felt like a big, drowsy cat.

“I haven't been in love,” Q confessed, not exactly sure why he was telling Bond this. Maybe it was the shared physical intimacy that made him yearn for a sort of emotional closeness, he thought; yet another thing he couldn't have predicted.

“I loved someone once, but that was a long time ago.” Bond released his hair and Q missed the loss of contact.

It was a bit unexpected, this emotional need, Q thought; he was a little overwhelmed after their latest round, blinking moisture from his eyes when he realised that Bond was doing the same. Q felt rather safe and content, and didn't feel like moving any time soon, not even to mate. His heat was slowly abating, which was all well and good, seeing that it was Sunday night and Bond would be leaving for Turkey the first thing the following morning.

“I'm experiencing a number of firsts here,” Q said, making himself more comfortable against Bond. “Not first kiss, thankfully. But sleeping with another person. And I mean that in both senses of the phrase. Of course I've shared a bunk with my brother before, but that doesn't count, obviously.”

There was no sense in beating around the bush; Bond had known he was a virgin, and his lack of experience with any sort of intimacy had to have been glaringly apparent from the word go.

“Do you want to move into my flat?” Bond asked. “I have more room. Not so close to the headquarters though.”

Q knew Bond had acquired a flat in Greenwich since Skyfall and the sale of his previous home, but for all he knew, the man didn't spend much time there. Q wrinkled his nose. He was quite used to his own flat by now. Besides, he liked the neighbourhood.

“Traditionally speaking, I suppose I should. But unless you insist on yours, I think I'd like to keep this one. It's big enough for two adults and a pup.”

Well, barely. But they could turn the guest room into a nursery, and arrange the living room so that there was room for a bigger couch maybe, and a little corner for him to work in.

Q could tell from Bond's voice that he was smirking. “And what about after we have more than one? That could easily happen in two years' time.”

“I'd like to have this one first before start planning for a second,” Q said dryly. “If there's something of mine you want to throw out, well, we'll discuss it. And if there's something you want to bring, we'll make room.”

Bond thought about it, his chest rising and falling while he considered. “My bed is better than yours,” he said. “And I have a bigger couch. Some rather fine linen too.”

“Then that's settled? I'll put in a request for a move-in team to pack the things that you want to bring.” Q's mouth made an unhappy little twist. “Which reminds me. I have to let M know of this new circumstance.”

Bond started to chuckle and Q's brow quirked; it was hardly a laughing matter.

“What's so funny?”

“Do you think he's going to be angry?” Bond asked. “I think the likeliest response is, 'what took you so long'.”

Q raised himself to look at Bond with an incredulous look. “I hardly think so, James. I've taken great pains not to treat you any differently from any of the others. There's not even any gossip, which is saying a lot.”

“Mallory knows everything there is to know, make no mistake,” Bond said. “Just like the old M did.”

Q narrowed his eyes, which was all for show since he wasn't wearing his glasses anyway. “Do you know something I don't?”

Bond was definitely smirking now. “I may have received the speech from Mallory. You know the one where I'm told to keep clear of the young Quartermaster unless I have honourable intentions.”

Q stared at him incredulously. “Liar. You didn't.”

“Well, not exactly. More like 'don't try to get into Q's pants unless you mean to bond'.”

Q allowed his head fall back to rest on Bond's chest. “Why is it that everyone deems it their business to talk about any chosen Omega's love life? I swear to God no one else’s business is discussed like this, from upper management to the lowliest minion. People speculating when I'm going to start – oh hell.”

He had to sit up and pushed Bond until he had enough room to sit upright, and covered his face with his hands. It had been years since he last had anxiety, and this was not a good time. He was a private person by nature and all this speculation and people minding his business was a bit too much, no matter how well-intentioned.

A warm hand rested on his back, rubbing between his shoulder blades. Bond didn't say anything, for which Q was grateful.

“I know I come off as arrogant. I know I'm brilliant and I don't know of anyone who could do my job better. And I hate when all this talk around me is about me being an Omega, like it is the only defining thing about me – as if I hadn't come to be where I am all on my own. I'm tired of being talked about and discussed and treated like I'm not the bloody Quartermaster, or a human being, but just some stereotypical Omega waiting for some big bad Alpha to show him what he really is for.”

Bond kept rubbing his back soothingly, and Q drew in a shuddering breath, aware that he was ranting.

“It's been like this always. Since I was a kid. My brother Hugh is the eldest and there was some confusion about his gender, and he was raised as a Beta. Then I was born and I was clearly an Omega from the start, and they wanted to make sure that I wouldn't be confused and wanted me to play with appropriate things and be interested in appropriate things. Like I wasn't a person but just an Omega, a stand-in for an actual person.”

“The only people who think Omegas are in any way lesser people are ignorant, and should be taught better,” Bond said. “You are in no way lesser for being bonded, and hopefully, pregnant. Like you said, you are brilliant. Much smarter than any Alpha I know, or indeed any person of any gender that I know.”

Q couldn't help a waspish: “I know.”

“Do you really care what anybody else thinks? That doesn't sound like you.”

Q gave him a serious look. “Yes? I do care about what people say, and think, when it reflects on my character.”

It was true that he didn't much care about what his relatives said about him, but he hated that even at MI6 people talked and gossiped and took notice.

“Now let's see. You're smart. Brilliant, almost genius. You're arrogant and you're impatient, you're snarky and sarcastic when you encounter someone with a lesser intellect.” Bond regarded him fondly, a small smirk in place. “You want to prove everyone wrong, but you don't want to sacrifice your own desires. And you're gorgeously tiny and I could probably snap your ankles without trying, but I would be deathly afraid of facing you in a fight. And what makes you a stupendously good Quartermaster is that you would never ask of anyone more than you ask of yourself.”

Bond's voice was matter-of-fact, and Q couldn't quite refute any of the points that he'd made. He shook his head slightly, and sighed.

“Adding to that – I'm really stubborn, and usually I really do know better. And when I'm not keeping you lot alive, I'm reading baby forums or writing reports or reading poetry because yes, I'm that pretentious and yes I enjoy it actually.”

“And I know you love being thin and you love your ridiculous hair,” Bond added.

“You should be grateful that our pup is getting all these marvellous genes,” Q said, sniffling a little. “Sorry. I bet it’s the hormones. Not a good look.”

Bond breathed out a soft, almost-chuckle. “It's alright. It's been an interesting weekend and emotions are running high.”

Q reached for his glasses on the coffee table and put them on. Bond was right. It was time to get back to real world, and next week was looming close enough that they should be sensible about how they would spend the rest of the evening. He hadn't expected Bond to be so cuddly.

“I should probably let you go back to your flat. If I recall correctly you're on an eight o’clock flight tomorrow morning to Bursa. I'll be at the branch. And in your ear obviously too.”

Bond took his jaw in hand, turning his head gently, and made Q meet his eyes.

“Nothing is going to happen,” he said. “It's a routine job.” Before Q could protest that no mission ever turned out to be routine where he was concerned, Bond covered his mouth in a quick kiss. “And I hope that you make sure you'll get plenty to eat in the meantime.”

“I have a deadline on Tuesday,” Q grumbled, “and I can't cook. The only reason we had anything to eat this weekend was because you thankfully do.”

Bond had made them some pasta carbonara on Saturday and they had wolfed down the carbs in record time, Q in just his dressing gown that revealed his chest that was littered with lovebites, Bond in a pair of pants that were actually Q's and bulged almost obscenely at the front. As soon as they were finished with their meals, Q had slithered back onto Bond's lap and started to suck on his bonding mark, wordlessly asking to be taken again.

Today, they had ordered in from the nice Korean place just around the corner, taking great pleasure in feeding each other. That had ended with Bond sucking him off for the first time, something that had shocked Q as much as it excited him. He'd managed to blurt out some kind of warning before he came gloriously in Bond's mouth, and spent the next few minutes trying to unscramble his brain.

He watched Bond get dressed, curling on the couch, reminding himself that what they were, and what they had, wasn't going to interfere with work until it absolutely had to. His heat was over, and Bond had things to do. And he needed to get on that budget planning software if he wanted it to churn out an acceptable end result by Tuesday morning.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by @besanii - thank you. xxx

Q put down the soldering iron and smacked the gadget he was holding against the edge of his desk. He made a tutting noise as a piece broke apart and fell on the floor, rolling under his desk and just out of reach. After a bit of frantic searching – on his knees, no less – and irritated swearing, he re-located the piece that had broken loose. He picked up his soldering iron, dusting his trouser knees with one hand.

“Q?”

“Busy,” he replied distractedly, bending over his project. The solder was a new metal alloy straight from his lab, something he'd been working on, on and off, since his days as R. Once he was done re-welding, he slammed the gadget against his desk again, smiling as it held and making a note of it in his report. 

“Q.”

“Yes Miss Moneypenny?” he asked, knowing that she wouldn't go away until she got what she had come for. He straightened his glasses as he took her in, her arms crossed over her chest. “It's not yet time for lunch, is it?”

Eve rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Nope. It's half past two, actually; I dropped you a sandwich three hours ago.” The sad little sandwich still sat by the far edge of Q's desk; his eyes slid over it guiltily. “Anyway. Congratulations are in order then?”

“Huh?” Q said, and blinked. “Oh, that. Yes. Quite.”

Eve let out an honest to God guffaw. “Quite, indeed. You reek of Bond even from two floors away. Did you have a happy bonding?”

Q thought back on Bond pressing against him and mouthing his pulse, and smiled. “Yes, quite.”

Eve waltzed inside his office, ruffling his hair briefly as she passed him and picking something up from his desk. Q snatched it back immediately; people should know better than to get grabby-handed around his stuff. She rolled her eyes at him, lifted a stack of papers from an office chair, and sat down with a happy little sigh. She finally paused and took him in properly, letting a smile take over her face.

“I'm happy for you, Q. Happy for him, too. It's just what you need.”

“Sex?” Q asked drolly.

“You're being thick today, boffin,” Eve complained good-naturedly. “Fine, I won't pry. When is Double-oh Seven due back?”

“About a week, give or take a few days,” Q said. He saved his report and returned his full attention to her. She looked impeccable as ever in her burgundy sheath dress and black stilettos. He re-dusted his trouser knees self-consciously. “Thank you, Eve. I don't want to advertise it any more than I have to, mainly because it's nobody's business, but everything went fine and I'm really pleased with things.”

“I couldn't help noticing you'd filed a request for the move-in team...” she began. She held up her hands defensively when Q's look turned into a half-glare. “You know stuff goes through my desk. I see things. That's my job.”

Q had to admit she was right. Things like that were bound to make a blip on people's radars sooner or later; two co-workers bonding never went unnoticed for long (especially among people who worked in espionage. Damned spies.). Besides, Eve was right about him wearing his Alpha's scent, too, which would clue everyone in immediately. He'd managed to avoid Mallory thus far, and wasn't looking forward to that conversation. Fraternising with a co-worker was one thing, bonding with James Bond was quite another.

Mallory didn't quite share his predecessor's regard for Bond, and had expressed more than once that Bond was quite the corrupting force; the fact that the younger generation of agents looked up to Double-oh Seven seemed to be a source of constant irritation.

Q had his own opinion on that, but sometimes it was better to shut up and simply let Mallory vent.

“If you need an intermediary with M,” Eve began gently. Q knew that she knew the man best, since she worked with him day in and day out – but he shook his head.

“I don't think it'll be necessary, Eve, but I appreciate the offer.” He pursed his lips, his eyes flitting in a rare display of nerves. “I'm quite confident we'll manage a civil discussion.”

Eve looked sympathetic. “And if you need me, I'll be just outside the door.”

“Well that's not very reassuring,” he complained, but had to crack a smile.

“So, you and Bond..?” she pried, blinking innocently.

Q groaned. “Eve, please. Let's not be so crass as to start discussing my bonded mate behind his back.”

“Q,” she implored, drawing out the letter. “Just... one thing.”

Q knew he shouldn't humour her. He shouldn't.

“One thing,” he allowed. But only because he knew she had no designs on either him, or Bond.

“Was it good?” she asked, and Q knew she wasn't asking just about the sex.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. It was good.”

* * *

The Turkey mission turned out to be everything but a routine job – a fact that Q assumed M had known since he had appointed Bond for the job. An air strike hit the hotel where Bond's contact had been staying just mere minutes before Bond landed in Bursa. Things took a definite turn for the worse when Bond was abducted from the airport. His earpiece went silent moments after he was forced into a car.

Q and Bond had had a nice, easy-going conversation going on before the news of the air strike came in. Q had immediately alerted Bond to the change in circumstance, and cautioned him for vigilance.

“When am I ever not careful,” Bond had told him, tongue very firmly in cheek, judging by the tone of his voice. Q hadn’t bothered to reply. He had told himself not to get sentimental. It was duty, and duty came first for people like him and Bond.

And now Bond had been taken.

“How in the hell did they get Bond?” Q demanded, hacking the airport security to get a look at the abductors. All he got was a nondescript black van with four men bundling an unconscious fifth man out of the airport building and inside the van – Bond. The fact that they'd incapacitated him didn't bode well. Q willed his hands to stop shaking so that he could do his job. Bond mate or not, he was still the sodding Quartermaster.

“A fellow passenger?” R suggested. He'd pulled up the passenger name list and started a background check on all the passengers without having to be told.

“Check the flight crew while you're at it,” Q said.

Q didn't sleep for thirty-five hours after that. He used his updated script to break into all the satellites in the general vicinity to get even the most rudimentary idea of the area. Bond's tracker had gone silent somewhere on the way to Izmir, and Q refused to think of the implications; as far as he was concerned, Bond was alive until someone brought his cold, dead body back to London.

He ended up crashing on Wednesday morning after he (they, he reminded himself; R had stayed on almost as long as he had) had exhausted all their options (that they'd thought of so far, there had to be more). When Mallory came down he didn't even attempt any excuses. He knew he'd missed the budgeting deadline, but there was an agent out there who was likely dead, or alive and wishing he was dead, and if Mallory had wanted a pencil pusher for a Quartermaster he should've replaced him as his first official act as M.

Q communicated this all with an unblinking, exhausted stare, and Mallory let out an honest to God snort.

“You should get some rest, Q. R and the day shift–” ah, so it was daytime, Q hadn't been sure, “–will take care of everything while you sleep. No one wants you exhausting yourself. Not even Bond.”

“If they're torturing him, sir, he might be screaming for us this very second,” Q said, his fingers curling around the edge of the table behind him. “I don't intend to leave him stranded.”

“Bond's not going to thank you for landing yourself in Medical for undue exhaustion and stress.” Mallory looked grave, he didn't even flinch at Q's incredulous burst of laughter.

“With all due respect sir, I don't intend to let my agent die thinking that we twiddled our thumbs while they were breaking him.” Q blinked as his field of vision started to dim and waver. If he was being honest with himself, it had been doing that for quite some time now. He breathed out hard, and levelled Mallory a look that said that he might be relenting, but he wasn't giving up. “Fine, three hours, and no more. R, you are to wake me up in three hours. Let's find the man.”

~

A day later, and still not a beep from Bond. Three days later, and Q had confirmation of what he'd suspected but not wanted to believe – he wasn't pregnant.

He stared at the pregnancy test unblinking, his mind spinning. He told himself that he wasn't disappointed; it was just his first heat, after all, and there would be plenty more. But while there may be more heats in store for him, there may be no more Bond. He thought about the percentage of Omegas who got pregnant from their first heats with a partner – it was somewhere in the upper eighties – and it was bloody unfair that he was among the few who hadn't. He screamed into his fist and banged his head against the bathroom wall, wishing that it wasn't so.

He came out just minutes later with his hair a little more ruffled than usual, but none of his orderlies commented on it. He broke into another satellite, and into yet another hotel's security cameras, looking for the man he knew wasn't dead.

Eve took him out for a drink after he had spent fourteen hours following what turned out to be a false lead – the facial recognition software had popped up with an alert, and he had followed the trail for hours on end, only find out that it was some Swedish journalist on holiday, and not his James. Q got wasted, absolutely legless, but his lips were sealed and he didn't breathe a word about Bond, or about a pup-that-wasn't. Eve took him home, telling him that James Bond was a bloody phoenix and he would be returning. Mark my words, he has you to return to and he will be coming back, I promise boffin.

Q let himself in, hiccupping and stifling dry, drunken sobs. No pup, likely widowed. He should have listened to the voice of reason and not get himself entangled with a double-oh agent. Few ever made it past thirty. Fewer still made it past forty, and practically none made it to retirement. He should have known better than to believe Bond –

His stomach lurched; he stumbled to the bathroom and retched into the toilet unhappily, spitting out bile when he was done. He startled and jumped when a hand landed on his nape and into his hair, and the world disappeared into a spell of dizziness when he tried to get up and defend himself.

It was Bond. His subconscious recognised his mate well before his rational mind did, and he was still struggling in the Alpha's hold as he heaved relieved breaths against Bond's chest. He hadn't realised until that moment how certain he had been that Bond was simply gone, despite his promises, and he wept with relief, while the Quartermaster part of him wanted to strangle the agent. He nuzzled the Alpha desperately, drinking in his scent, only peripherally aware that Bond was doing the same.

Bond allowed him to continue until he was spent, then took him by his chin and made him look up at him. Q blinked blearily, mind temporarily clouded.

“You're drunk Q. What about the pup?”

Q shook his head unhappily, drawing in breath in deep gulps. “There's no pup,” he said. “No pup. I'm not pregnant.”

Bond frowned. “You're sure?”

“I took ten tests. Different brands. All negative.” Q pushed him away and ambled into the bedroom, the adrenaline spike taking a downward turn all too quickly. “And I've been worrying myself sick – the whole branch has worked themselves into ground because of you, you could have called, let us know –”

He paused in his rant when he turned in and took Bond in properly for the first time. There were bags underneath his eyes, and he had a somewhat sick pallor despite his face being sunburnt; he was wearing a shirt that was at least two sizes too big; one of his hands was bandaged (some blood had seeped through); and he was holding himself a little awkwardly. Q's rational mind immediately supplied that he'd likely cracked his ribs. Good, he thought vengefully. But before he knew it, he was crossing over to Bond to check him for any further damages, wanting to soothe.

“What happened?” he asked, instead of what took you so long, because right now, he was Quartermaster tending to his agent. He unbuttoned Bond's shirt, wincing when Bond hissed in discomfort.

“You remember Chantal.” Q nodded; Chantal Bérard was one of the agents working for their French allies, and had worked with Bond before. “She got me back in the country via Spain and France. I was in no condition to fly commercial. As for what happened...”

Bond snorted humourlessly. “I was drugged on the plane just after landing. I have no recollection outside of Yenişehir; Chantal said they found me on a field outside of Izmir, completely out of it two days later. My hands and feet were tied. Her guess was they had simply tossed me off from their van once they got far enough from Bursa. Clearly I wasn't wanted at the scene. Morrison was at the hotel at the time of the strike. The intel's gone.”

Q made a disbelieving sound. The hostiles had abducted an MI6 agent and rendered him unconscious, had him completely at their mercy, and hadn't done anything more than put him in a van and driven him out of town? Why not dispose of him permanently? What was more irritating was that they were still in the dark as to who was responsible for the strike. Q Branch was still looking into it, but there were so many things going in at once that it had been relegated into the back-burner for now, and revisited only in case they received new intel.

“I should take you to Medical to check for possible after effects,” Q said, sobering up at an alarming pace.

Bond shook his head. “It's been days now. I should be fine. I just want to go to bed and hold you.”

Q decided against arguing about it; he might be the Quartermaster, but he had never been able to out-stubborn James Bond. He cleaned Bond's wounds and rewrapped them, and then helped him into bed after helping him out of his clothes, making a face at the state of Bond's trousers and shoes. He would have to get his mate in the shower the first thing in the morning. He brushed his own teeth in record time and slid in between the sheets, breathing out carefully as not to jostle Bond. He brushed his lips near the wound in Bond's bicep where the tracker chip had been dug out.

“That's going to leave a hell of a scar.”

“I heard Omegas love scars,” Bond slurred, and Q realised only then how tired he must be, how exhausted, and he most likelyhadn't slept at all until he had got home safe.

He blinked back the burning tears that followed, gently kissing the unharmed skin next to the wound, to reassure himself that his Alpha was home, and alive, and his. Bond pulled him close with his uninjured arm, and sleepily rubbed his nose against the crown of Q's head.

~

He managed to talk Bond into going to Medical the next morning, where they took him in to get his bloodwork done and to wrap his ribs, before Q saw him to a company car and sent him home(that still felt weird; that Q's home was now Bond's home, too).

Q messaged M via Moneypenny to let him know that he'd take care of the debrief since he also had other things to discuss with him, and because Bond was unavailable for the moment. He'd had a very interesting discussion with agent Bérard, one that had been a bit too personal after she learned that Q was not only the Quartermaster of MI6 but also Bond's bonded mate.

“I thought I'd never see the day,” agent Bérard said. “The infamous James Bond settling down with an Omega.”

Personally Q found her accent lovely, but her personality a bit abrasive; she was polite enough, but her attitude was clear. Q was an Omega, and Quartermaster or not, his sex meant he was inferior.

She could tell him little that Bond hadn't already; they had been alerted by the Six after the air strike by their agents in the area, and had started the search where Bond's tracker chip had last appeared on the map. They had suspected a mole at Six, thanks to the suspect timing of both the strike and the abduction, and decided against contacting Q Branch. Q thanked them on behalf of MI6 for nursing Bond back to health and getting him back to the country.

Mallory didn't look happy about the mission having gone tits up so spectacularly, but he couldn't place the blame on either Bond or Q, and so he simply seethed. He didn't like it any better than Q that the group responsible for the air strike and killing their undercover agent was still unidentified, and that Morrison's intel had been lost. It was a shared opinion that Bond's abductors had been muscle for hire, likely local. Q didn't believe they would be found.

“And how's Bond?” M asked. His face was blank, and Q wondered if he'd smelled Bond on him.

“On the mend,” Q said. “The drug shouldn't have any after effects, but I'm keeping a close watch on him. He’s also received very detailed orders from Medical. If anything changes, they're taking him in.”

Mallory looked at him, frowning. “Why are you keeping a watch on Bond?”

Q couldn't tell if Mallory was being obtuse, or if he really didn't know. “Well, this is probably as good a time as any to announce that as of last Friday, Bond and I have been cohabitating as bonded mates.”

Q waited for Mallory to explode. He didn't; instead he looked vaguely irked and disappointed.

“I thought that would be the case. I was hoping against hope that I was wrong.”

“Are you implying that I have no right to a personal life?” Q asked. “Sir.”

Mallory sighed and straightened himself in his chair. “I was hoping that since you had made it this far unbonded you wouldn't fall for any of the double-oh's. I was hoping to get more than just one year of active service out of you.”

“Forgive me, sir, but if I were an Alpha you wouldn't be talking to me like this. I'm the Quartermaster of MI6, and unless it's there in invisible ink – and it's not, because I bloody checked – I do not believe that being celibate and unbonded is a part of my job description.” Q took a deep breath and tried to calm down. “Sir. I won't have anyone making disparaging or indeed any sort of remarks on my private life. I have earned that much.”

Mallory gave a short, sharp nod. “So be it. I'm quite willing to admit your performance has been exemplary from the start. Apart from the – incident at the beginning.”

Perhaps he thought he was being gracious, by not mentioning Silva by name, but Q's face still heated (perhaps it was supposed to).

“Perhaps I'm being selfish here,” Mallory said suddenly. “I've come to rely on you quite a lot, Q. I don't think we can easily replace you. And perhaps I see some of my own son in you. I wouldn't want him to throw away his ambitions because of certain – biological urges. I wouldn't want you to. But now I see on your face that I'm crossing the line. Apologies, Quartermaster. I won't be broaching the subject again.”

“Thank you, sir,” Q said stiffly, realising that he had given quite the lecture to his direct superior. “If that was all–?”

“Dismissed.” Mallory returned back to the mission report in front of him, and then read out loud. “Chantal Bérard. This was the agent who was quite keen on Bond, if memory serves?”

Q escaped with most of his dignity intact, and promised himself never to engage Mallory again. He sent a text message to Bond, M dealt with. Next time YOU do it.

~

Bond was reading a book when Q came home that evening, lying on the couch with his feet propped on the cushions. Q instinctively ran a visual check on him. Nothing seemed out of order, so he dropped his satchel bag in the hallway, shrugged out his coat, and went to his mate.

Bond's hand lowered into Q's hair as he pressed his face against Bond's muscular thigh, breathing in his Alpha's scent and allowing it to soothe him. It had been a hell of a week; he wasn't pregnant, and after the meeting with Mallory he had spent the next five minutes in the bathroom calming down before going back to the labs. He gradually became aware of Bond's fingers carding through his hair and Bond's scent intensifying as the Alpha became aroused. Q raised his head, and bit his lip when he saw that Bond had put the book away and was staring at his mouth.

“Don't move,” Q said, and then added, “please.”

Bond's brow twitched as Q took off his shoes and then settled back on the floor. “Hands behind your head please.”

Bond did as he was bid, his biceps bunching deliciously as he did so, and Q's mouth watered at the gorgeous sight. One of them was still covered in faint lovebites from their first weekend, when Q had at one point managed to latch onto Bond's bicep with his lips, pressing sucking kisses all along the bulging muscle right next to his head while Bond gave him his cock.

He opened the fly of Bond's jeans – exactly when had he taken to wear jeans, and practically indecent jeans at that – and took out Bond's cock. He wasn't quite so quick to harden as before, but Q didn't mind; in fact he preferred it, rousing him slowly with his mouth, feeling him grow and thicken on his tongue, tasting and smelling him as he grew hard. He slipped his mouth over the head and sucked, allowing his spit-shiny lips to drag on the crown as he withdrew.

He could feel himself getting damp, and shifted slightly, imagining Bond's thick fingers slipping in and out of him as he pleasured him. Bond made a growling noise in the back of his throat when he smelled Q's arousal, and Q hoped that Bond wouldn't order him off his knees. He wanted to make him come like this, with his mouth alone; he wanted to please his Alpha out of sheer happiness of having him back.

“I want you to swallow,” Bond said, his voice rough. It was the first time he had spoken since Q had come in, and Q felt more slick seeping out at the command. It was Bond's right, as his Alpha, and there would likely be times when Q would bristle at being told what to do, but this wasn't one of those times. He didn't reply, because that would've meant letting Bond's prick slide free from his mouth.

“Jesus you're gorgeous Q, on my cock,” Bond said with a muffled voice and then came, his hips thrusting up but not enough to make Q gag.

Q swallowed as his mouth was flooded and gentled Bond down from his orgasm, breathless and panting, but feeling calmer and more grounded that he'd felt in ages.

This, here, was alright. James, home, with him.

* * *

Q and Bond had all but finished moving in Bond's things, and the apartment was shaping up into something entirely different. Not in a bad way, Q thought, looking at the expensive leather couch that had replaced his sad little loveseat. Just...different. They were a proper couple now, inhabiting the same space, learning about each other's habits and idiosyncrasies.

Q knew now that Bond preferred coffee in the mornings, with a splash of milk. Bond knew not to talk to Q before he'd had his tea if he wanted to be understood, or even listened to. Bond had developed a fascination with Q's hair, running his fingers through it every time an opportunity presented itself. Q made no secret of the fact that Bond's body had almost like a magnetic pull where he was concerned; he tried not to drool, but he did his best to feel him up. Those ridiculous pecs. Q became snippy if Bond acted too amused about it.

Bond liked morning sex the best, and was generally easier to handle and less of a pain in the arse if he'd had at least one orgasm before leaving the flat in the morning. It wasn't exactly a hardship, Q thought, seeing how he'd developed almost an addiction of sorts to Bond's cock. From virgin to sex fiend, he marvelled. He blamed Bond entirely.

Bond kept borrowing his socks, even if his own were of superior quality (Q's were fluffier). Q kept stealing Bond's luxury brand toothpaste just because it tasted better.

It was beautifully domestic; almost perfect. Or it could have been. Q's disappointment over not having conceived weighed on them both.

Alex and Emma popped in with baby Geraldine one night soon after Bond's homecoming; Q made the introductions and weathered the congratulations quite well; he only blushed a little, accepting a congratulatory hug from Emmy and a handshake from Alex, and then indicated that he'd like to hold baby Geraldine, please.

“You two have already met,” he whispered to the pup. “James is my mate now.”

Bond was very charming to Q's friends, citing rugby as the reason for his apparent injuries, and striking up a conversation with Alex over the national team. Q hadn’t known that Bond followed rugby and was grateful that his mate didn't prattle on about it to him. He could fake interest as well as any other, but he preferred not doing that with his bonded mate.

Q cooed over the baby, peppering her perfect little face with kisses while Bond stood behind him, nuzzling him in a way that was completely non-sexual, causing Emma to give her partner pointed looks and smiling at him and Bond very knowingly. She was quite taken with Bond, anyway, widening her eyes at Q almost comically as she indicated his looks and his build. Alex was a bit more guarded, puffing his chest and dropping his voice a little lower than usual, causing the two Omegas to smirk between themselves at the Alpha posturing.

Bond was very cute with the baby when it was his turn to hold her; clearly unpractised, but very gentle, and slightly in need of rescuing when she – inevitably – started to fuss. Q watched him handle her and wrapped his arms around himself.

Q and Bond played with Geraldine together, Bond holding her while Q entertained her with a plush toy, and it was easy to forget that, for all they looked like a little family, it was but a fantasy. She was expecting another, which she confessed in an intimate whisper, and the tears that sprang into Q's eyes were only partially because of his happiness for his friend.

“He's really lovely,” Emma told him when they were leaving, Q holding onto baby Geraldine for as long as he was able. “He'll make a great father I'm sure. As would you, but that goes without saying, love.”

“I think so too,” Q said quietly. He let go of baby Geraldine's little hand, watching as Alex carried her away.

As soon as the door closed after their visitors, Bond came to him and nuzzled his neck and his hair-line, almost as if he couldn't get enough of Q's scent which he knew had spiked; the Alpha's own scent was wreaking havoc on Q's own senses. He nuzzled Bond back, closing his eyes as the stubble on Bond's jaw burned his lips. Bond made him meet his mouth and their tongues tangled before Bond's tongue thrust into his mouth and tasted him there.

“When's your next heat?” he asked, handling Q a little roughly, which he didn't mind.

“I don't know. Soon.”

Bond met his gaze, eyes shock-blue. “Good.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta ready by @besanii -thank you! xx
> 
> You can find me at princebenji.tumblr.com.

V

 

The days seemed to blur into one and before they knew it, it was December, and Q was busier than ever. He joked with Tanner that all the baddies wanted to wrap up their evil business well before Christmas to spend the holidays with their families, which meant Q was again clocking overtime and trying to avoid Mallory and another lecture – about his chosen mate, overtime log or anything in general. He had also began staff evaluations, which he meant to finish before the Christmas break, and all in all it seemed he had enough on his plate to give much thought to anything else.

It was no big surprise, then, that Q had forgot all about Laura and her up-coming visit. He received a text message from her one evening, confirming the date and time of her arrival less than a week ahead. He looked at the message suspiciously, wondering what to do with it and what it meant. Then it clicked. Oh bloody hell.

Eve joked that he should take her to work with him. He flatly told her she was a Beta and not available anyway.

“Grouchy, grouchy boffin,” Eve teased and ruffled his hair in passing.

Secretly Q thought that Eve and Laura would get on splendidly. At least they both loved getting on his nerve (in a very loving, big-sisterly way).

The good thing was that Luke wasn't coming. The bad thing was that Laura would be staying for three nights. Three nights that Bond would be actually be spending in the country, recuperating as ordered by Medical. At home. He would be returning to active duty soon, but 001 was currently in Poland standing in for him, and there were no urgent missions pending.

His family didn't even know that he'd bonded yet; there just hadn't been a good time to let them know. Q considered his mother and her likeliest response to the news that her Omega son had bonded, and thought that perhaps he and Bond could take a train during the Easter break to visit his parents. Failing that, he could perhaps send a postcard to break the news.

Q considered booking Laura a hotel room a few blocks away, but dropped the idea; the whole point of her visit was to spend time together and not stash her away. He then considered booking Bond a hotel room on the other side of the city, and dropped that idea too. He hadn't had his second heat yet, but he knew it was coming. The tell-tale itchiness was starting to grow inside him, and coupled with infrequent stomach cramps it was enough to clue him in. He had to suppress a slightly hysterical chortle at the thought of housing his sister while being knotted together with Bond.

“My sister is coming over in four days,” he said to Bond over yet another pasta dish – Bond was clearly intent on making him gain a little weight – and waited for the display of displeasure. They hadn't discussed meeting the family, and Q thought that making Bond meet his friends had been a bit imposing.

Bond raised his brows mid-chew but didn't comment.

“I invited her over before you and I – before we, you know.” Q gestured with his fork helplessly, feeling as though he should explain himself.

Bond looked faintly amused. “Bonded.”

“Yes. I can't very well tell her not to come now. She's bought the train tickets already and I haven't seen her since Easter. I was going to put her up in the guest room --”

“It's fine. Do you want me out of the way?” Bond asked, finishing his wine. Q wasn't having any; the hangover from his last bout of binge drinking had put him off alcohol quite effectively.

“I could be in heat by then,” he said softly, and then cleared his throat. “I don't know. She's not actually all that helpless. I'm sure she can find stuff to do in the city even if I'm otherwise engaged. You know. Because of work, or us.”

The thought of having someone over while in heat wasn't very tempting, even if that someone was his younger sister with whom they were quite close. His mother would probably faint at such appalling manners. And Q wanted to be able to drown in their closeness again and not have to worry about anything, or anyone, else. Not that he would be capable of any of that once his heat hit.

“Why don't you tell her? Let her decide where she wants to stay.” Bond still appeared unconcerned.

“You can't possibly want her here! If we're going to be spending two days no further apart than –” Q paused, giving Bond a meaningful look.

Bond waggled his eyebrows and gave him a smirk that was absolutely indecent. “Are you so sure we couldn't trigger your heat before then?”

Q's face flushed at the proposition. The feeling of James inside him was still fresh in his memory, and he suddenly wanted that.

“We could try,” he said, aiming for teasing, to give Bond a taste of his own medicine.

He should have known better than to expect Bond to finish his meal; instead, Bond pushed away his plate and gathered his Omega close. Q yelped when Bond picked him up and took him to the living room.

Soon enough, Q was shivering with arousal as Bond's lips trailed a fiery path down his stomach, pausing only to place sucking kisses around his navel, his hands once again spanning Q's tiny waist, holding on with such possessiveness that Q doubted he could have freed himself. He didn't care a whit, not when Bond was worshipping his belly with his lips and his stubble. He started to keen when his prick rose to poke the underside of Bond's jaw, refusing to be neglected. He was glad that Bond was holding him by his waist because his knees wobbled when Bond slipped the head into his mouth.

“Oh Christ,” he babbled, taking in Bond’s short hair and protruding ears, reconciling with the fact that James Bloody Bond was fellating him on his couch like it was no small matter. Q was standing in front of him wearing nothing, a glaring contrast to Bond's slacks and dress shirt. His belly cramped and Q whined as Bond allowed him to slide from his mouth.

“Can you take my knot?” he asked, that full, pouting mouth now a little swollen. Q tried to think. He wasn't in heat yet; accommodating an Alpha's knot outside of a heat was physically impossible for some Omegas, and difficult for the rest. Q wasn't sure which group he belonged to, but he couldn't think right now.

“I don't know, but James please put your mouth on me,” he said shakily, sinking his fingers into Bond's hair as Bond swallowed him down again.

He thrust slightly, unused to doing so without partnering someone else, and came into Bond's mouth with all kinds of embarrassing noises and slick running down his thigh. Bond was now flushed, too, eyes dark and wanting.

“I want to try,” Q finally managed, whimpering as his prick was released.

“I'll go slow,” Bond said and Q nodded, unable to find any more words.

They didn't fall into bed right away. Bond pulled him into his lap and kissed him everywhere, nuzzling on the bonding mark and grinding up against him. Q hated to be a passive participant, but in all honesty it was all he could do; Bond's pheromones were all but drowning him. He was making a mess on Bond's slacks, and he whimpered through his closed lips as Bond closed his mouth on his bonding mark and sucked.

Q's vision dimmed and wavered and the itch inside him grew downright unbearable. He grabbed at the Alpha, pulling his head back and mashing their mouths together and sucking on Bond's tongue. Bond made a growling noise as Q's scent sharpened suddenly, and his trousers soaked right through where Q was sitting in his lap, his hips making stuttering little jerks against him. He needed Bond. He needed Bond's thick cock in him. His knot –

Q rolled over onto his hands and knees and presented, chest heaving, trying to suppress a frankly embarrassing mewling noise. It rose into a keen when he saw Bond getting up and opening his fly and pushing his trousers down his muscular legs. He had lucked out, that was his last coherent thought before all he could think of was taking Bond inside him.

“This is all very unsanitary, you know,” Q had to remark sometime later. They were still joined where Bond's knot was keeping him inside Q and Bond had twisted to the side so he wouldn’t crush his mate. Q had a laptop balanced on his chest and was typing furiously.

“I didn't think you'd bring work into bed.”

“I didn't think you'd manage to trigger my heat when I'm all but drowning in work.”

Bond looked utterly unrepentant despite the glare Q aimed at him, and in truth it was half-arsed attempt to begin with. Q logged into the mainframe and started to poke around; his weekly check had reported minor glitches that he wanted repaired right away. No-one would ever pull a Silva on his branch again. His breath caught as Bond shifted inside him, and he managed to delete two lines of code before he regained command of his faculties again. Bond shrugged at the intensified glare this earned him.

“Sorry, I was trying to get more comfortable.”

“You're trying to get me into trouble,” Q said with a look that implied he knew exactly Bond was up to.

“I thought that was the point,” Bond said, and shifted again, prompting an involuntary clench from Q with the delicious drag against his most sensitive spots.

“Oh bugger,” Q ground out and closed the laptop with a decisive snap, ignoring Bond's smirk when he turned to his mate. “Okay, give it to me then. Get me in big trouble.”

Bond didn't waste time gloating over Q’s surrender; instead he gathered the Omega close, rolling them over so that Q ended up on the bottom. “With pleasure, Q.”

~

Laura texted him from Paddington after her train had arrived and he asked her to take a cab; he would pay.

Bond was in headquarters but coming back later; Q had left work early, leaving R in charge of the branch and the handling of 001 in Poland. He suddenly felt nervous about introducing Bond to his sister. She was the only family member that he felt close to, and he wanted her to like him. He knew Bond could be charming, and he'd definitely made a good impression on Emma, who'd texted him a few days after their visit to gush about his handsome mate. But Laura...Q knew that Laura didn't much care for male Alphas. She'd also always been very protective of her brother, even if he was actually older than her and didn't need anyone's protection.

Q hoped she wouldn't ask if he and Bond were in love. He knew there was this pull between them, but for Bond, it was probably more of a convenient arrangement with an Omega he found attractive. As for Q – well, the less he tried to analyse his own feelings apart from his physical reaction to Bond's proximity, the better. He was quite confident he was over his stupid crush with Bond being none the wiser. Or at least the Alpha had made no mention of it. Q was sure Bond would have taken the piss had he known.

Q only realised the guest room bed still had the linens from Alex and Emma's visit after he'd sent the message. He made a beeline to the guest room, throwing open the window and stripping the bed, trundling his armful to the washing machine before getting fresh linens. It would have to do for now; he could do very little about the tell-tale pheromones and the mingled scents of himself and Bond. He hoped Laura wouldn't smack him.

She texted again when the cab was in the neighbourhood, and Q put on a pair of shoes and his coat to go downstairs. Laura shivered as she shrugged on her backpack and watched Q thrust a handful of bills to the cabbie, wishing him Merry Christmas.

“You shouldn't have paid that much,” she scolded, and then pulled him into a hug. She buried her nose in his neck and froze, pulling back to see his face better. They were of equal height, so it was no hardship at all. “You smell different,” she said almost accusingly. Q's scent had forever acted as a calming agent to his siblings, and he hadn't even paused to consider how his bonding might change that.

“Let's get you inside, you're freezing,” Q said evasively, and ushered her in.

Laura paused right inside the doorway. Q winced behind her back, she had to be smelling Bond all over the place. She swivelled around and fixed him a look.

“You've bonded,” she said. “And he lives here with you? Seriously Daniel, last time we talked you were making jokes about immaculate conception, and now – Christ on a bike, you're not with a pup are you?”

She was talking a mile a minute, a shared sibling trait, and Q tried to hush her. “I'm sorry, it's been a bit sudden, sit down please and I'll put the kettle on.”

“The place looks fancy! I like it,” she called after him, referring to Bond's leather couch and the new carpet and all the finer details of their new décor. Bond had a taste for interior design, it seemed, at least when he was off-duty and bored enough. Another surprise.

He updated her on the most recent developments over tea – glossing over the more intimate details – and she made all the right noises when he told her that they were colleagues and James too worked for the government. She warned him that as soon as Mum got wind of the news, their parents would be flying down to meet Q's new partner. Q paled at the thought.

“Please don't tell her anything. I'll tell her when the time is right.”

Laura mimed zipping her lips shut and throwing away the key. “But you're not pregnant?” she still checked.

Q shook his head. “Too early to know,” he said.

It turned out that he wasn't the only one with news. Laura told him tearfully that she and Luke had broken it off just a week before. Apparently there had been someone else, even though Luke had denied it to the last. “But women know these things,” Laura said, giving Q almost an accusing stare as though it was his fault for being male.

“Do I need to go all protective big brother on him?” Q asked, already prepared to obliterate his bank account and his study credits. His brow quirked when that made her laugh. 

“No, there's no need. I'd rather just forget all about him and move on. I just thought you should know.”

“Okay. Thank you. Have you told Mum yet?”

Laura widened her eyes. “Are you crazy? No. I'll tell her later. Like maybe after Christmas. Or over Easter holidays or whatever.” They shared a grin. “So where's this beau of yours? Please don't tell me you married a workaholic. It's bad enough that you are one.”

“We're not married,” Q said quickly. That was a tradition for the more romantic couples, not for the likes of him and Bond. “And he should be home soon.”

Bond very nearly charmed the pants off of her – eventually. He took her in, green eyes and long dark hair, declared that great beauty clearly ran in the family, and did Q by any chance have any more lovely siblings to introduce? Laura was slow to warm, but over their evening tea she had to laugh at Bond's teasing of Q, and his quips about Laura's chosen field of study which she passionately defended. When Bond excused himself to get himself a pack of cigarettes – and a packet of crisps for Laura – she leaned in and said,

“He's so goddamn fit, Daniel, how lucky are you? And he's smart.”

“I know,” Q said. “I mean – yes, he is.”

It had absolutely thrown him for a loop. Acting like a couple, if only for his sister's benefit. Seeing this other side of James outside of bed. James had been calling him Daniel all evening, and while it felt strange, it was also nice. It was nice having Bond touch him casually, curling his fingers in the fine hairs on his neck, meeting his eyes when they shared a laugh.

No, Q told himself. They were in this together, but that didn't mean he should start harbouring any notions about Bond's possible feelings. Or his own.

“So you're joining me for the theatre?” Laura asked. “I've booked tickets for so many things, Daniel. I need to get my mind off of Luke.”

“That's emotional blackmail,” Q said. Laura shrugged as if to say 'see if I care'.

“Well, it's either the theatre, or joining me for my Christmas shopping.”

“Okay, so what plays did you have the tickets for?”

~

Laura came and went, her visit an absolute flurry of activities all around London. Q saw more plays he'd seen in the last five years. She was content to visit all the museums on her list all by herself when Q had to work, and on one memorable occasion she even got James to join her. Q wasn't sure if that was the worst idea he'd ever heard, but come evening they were all back to the flat and Bond and Laura hadn't killed each other, so it was all good.

“He really cares for you,” Laura whispered to him as they said goodbyes. Q rolled his eyes and told her to have a safe trip back.

It was back to business, then, and he spent all his available hours at the branch. What he had thought was a glitch – or what his routine check-up had reported to him as a glitch – was turning out to be a curious thing, and not random at all. It was almost as though someone was poking at the weakest parts without intruding – and Q would have gleefully booted them out if they ever did.

“Who do you think you are, Silva junior?” Q muttered to himself, and started to track them down.

He was interrupted by a timid knock on the door. Brad, one of his minions, poked his head in. “Sir, I came for evals?”

Q sighed, his fingers reluctantly stopped their typing. He had almost forgot that he had booked the whole day for staff evaluations. He had asked each of them to evaluate their own performance during the year before their appointed time, so as to be prepared for the discussion. Not his favourite part of the job, but it had to be done, and he couldn't delegate this one to R because he would be having one with R as well.

001's mission had gone tits-up. It was no fault of R's, or Q's, but they had lost an agent and it weighed heavily on everyone. Mallory had ordered a full investigation, and Eve had hinted to Q that Bond would be sent in to finish off the mission. Q had postponed most of his staff talks until January, but he thought he could fit in Brad and a couple of other branch members before getting back to more urgent matters.

“Yes, come on in.” He frowned and stared at his monitor before turning to Brad. “I'm starting to think those so-called glitches are deliberate attacks. Or not so much attacks as – pokes. As if to see if we're awake. What do you think?”

Brad blinked and walked over to Q's monitor, leaning in to see better. “May I?” he asked, indicating the keyboard. Q nodded. Brad gnawed on his lip with his teeth as he worked, checking the earlier logs and accessing the recent updates. Finally he stopped typing and looked at Q.

“I have to agree with you, sir. It's all a bit too convenient – the times when it happens and where, it's never twice in the same place. Looks like someone's hacking us. Or trying to.”

Q pursed his mouth and straightened his glasses. “I'm going to cram it down their throat,” he said darkly, before remembering their agenda. “Oh, right. The performance evaluation. Good work all around, Brad. I have no complaints, but I wanted to mention that one time you ended up handling 008. What do you think?”

“Well, I think this whole year has been quite the learning curve,” Brad said. “It's very different to my previous job. To be honest, I'm still not quite sure on how to deal with the agents. I think you need to have the knack for that, thinking on your feet. R's good, and you of course, sir. And Tanner. I don't think I'm built for that, to be honest.”

Q had to admit he had a point there. He preferred not to put his staff on the comms – apart from R – and it had been an unlucky coincidence that had landed Brad on the comms with 008 some months back. Tanner had been away from the Office with Mallory on official Six business, R was at home with a stomach flu and Q himself had been in the middle of trying to guide Bond out of the catacombs in Rome before he bled to death.

He couldn't help thinking that maybe it would have been different with 001 if he had been on the comms instead of R, but stopped that line of thought. R was capable, and as meticulous as Q himself.

They spent the rest of the appointed time planning the demise of their mysterious hacker, before he remembered that he had other duties. Q asked Brad to send Linda in next. He sighed; the hours ahead seemed endless. He pasted on a smile as Linda entered his office, and asked her to take a seat.

~

Bond was somewhere in rural Poland, tracking down the rest of the gang who were responsible for 001's death. It had been a complete cock-up, that particular mission, and Q had been poring over the mission report for hours to understand just where they had gone wrong. What signs there had been that they hadn't noticed.

The infuriating thing was that there weren't any; it had been a routine job up to the point where 001 had checked out of the small motel outside Gdansk and his car had detonated. The bomb had killed the agent, as well as the reception clerk and the Lithuanian couple who had been in the process of checking in when the attack happened, instantly.

They had managed to gather enough intel to point to a small sub-branch of national terrorists. The group had been taken in by one of the more organized mob gangs who had blown up the British and German Embassies in Warsaw the year before, and then went underground. Nothing had been heard from them since, until now.

And the poor bastards now had Bond and Christie, Double-Oh Four, on their trail. Q would have felt sorry for them if not for the fact that they had killed one of his agents. As things were, both agents had been handed palm-coded Walther PPKs in addition to their usual equipment; Christie had been very impressed, and Bond had been appreciative. Q had told them tersely not to lose them, and _please avenge 001 and make sure these arseholes don't kill any more of British citizens._

By now Q was so drenched with Bond's scent that 004 had done a rather comic double-take upon entering the branch. She then elbowed Bond so hard between his ribs that Q could have sworn he heard them crack. Anyone else would have earned themselves a black eye at the very least, but Bond simply shrugged as if to say 'can you blame me'. Q wrote it all off as Alpha posturing and didn't deign to acknowledge it as anything out of the ordinary.

“Let's try and keep the collateral damage to a minimum, shall we?” he said to the agents, giving them a look over his glasses. “The Polish government doesn't need to be bothered unduly.”

“Of course, Quartermaster,” Christie said smartly, throwing a teasing look at Bond. “No need to tell _me_ that.”

Bond lingered a little longer after 004 had left, and although they didn't do more than share a look and nuzzle, Q saw a few of the minions staring and knew that the gossip mill had just got more fodder. Q told Bond to please mind the equipment and himself, and come back in one piece.

“Don't run yourself to the ground meanwhile,” Bond said, his hand brushing Q's stomach almost unnoticeably. The heat had been a good one, Q thought, and this time he felt certain that they'd done the job. Q told him to quit nagging, secretly pleased by the consideration.

“I'm running the branch until you come back. In case you needed an incentive to make this a quick one.”

~

004 seemed to attract bullets; everywhere she went, a firefight was certain to occur. The agents had traced the terrorist cell to a tiny village just outside of Gdansk to where their intel had suggested the mob gang's headquarters was located; an old and decrepit factory building at the end of a quiet road. To Q's infinite satisfaction, there were cameras all over the place, and he hacked them with palpable glee.

The two agents communicated through the earwig, and Q occasionally interjected to bark out orders which, he was pleased to see, 004 obeyed almost as quickly as Bond. He had the building's security feed on his monitor and all the larger screens, and the minions were busy decrypting the security details.

They were currently on the ground floor of the factory building, but Q kept a close look on the mezzanine, as well as the doorways to the two staircases; one across the reception area, the other one at the back of the lobby.

So far Christie had acquired a bullet graze to her right shoulder, something she kept complaining about under her breath. She crouched low in wait under the mezzanine behind the receptionist's desk. Bond had been forced to seek refuge inside a small storage room after the initial firefight. A small group of men were holding an impromptu palaver just outside the door to the room where he was in hiding, and Bond didn't have the necessary firepower to break out and engage them.

Q gnawed on his lip as 004 went in with gun blazing, scoring hits left and right. Bond was finally able to leave the storage room amidst the chaos that had broken out and add to the melee.

“Three more in-coming through the staircase at the back,” Q told them. “Plus two in the cellar, but I think they're – asleep? Really?”

There were several cots in the cellar, and two of them were occupied; they weren't moving, though, and Q frowned as he fiddled with the feed. The slightly grainy quality didn't allow him to make out the details, but the slowly expanding dark circles on their pillows suggested that they were no threat.

“Cellar clear,” Q said. “Double-oh Four, three hostiles now --”

Q quickly fiddled with the volume controls when the hostiles opened fire and the agents answered. The feed from the lobby showed 004 flattened against the wall behind a cabinet with her hand protectively cradling her arm. Q spied her weapon now lying uselessly on the floor some metres away from her. Bond was seeking shelter from the fire in a doorway that opened from the lobby, crouched low and returning fire whenever he could.

“Double-oh Four, pick up your weapon for god's sake,” Q snapped. It was nothing short of a miracle she hadn't been hit again, most likely thanks to the fact that the hostiles were concentrating on the one returning their fire.

One fell thanks to a lucky, almost blind shot from Bond. Another slipped in a puddle of blood and was finished by 004, who had ducked out from her hiding place to secure her weapon. It was a short-lived joy, however. Before he fell, the man managed to get in a last shot. Christie shouted and swore in pain. The last remaining terrorist saw it wiser to retreat back to the staircase. Q told Bond to follow before returning his attention to 004. Her left hand had been all but shattered by the bullet.

“I'm alright,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “It went right through. I think.”

Bond disappeared into the staircase and Q cursed as he realised that there were no security cameras. His voice belied his anxiety.

“Double-oh Seven, I cannot see you, we're blind.”

“Understood, Q.”

Q checked all the cameras again, willing something to appear. He glanced at the string of bodies in the lobby before moving on. Christie was making a makeshift bandage using her scarf, cursing under her breath. 

Something moved in his peripheral vision and Q turned his attention to it immediately.   
His fingers froze as he saw the remaining terrorist on the second floor mezzanine with a bazooka, taking aim in the staircase where Bond was either waiting or likely to emerge any second now. Q's breath left him in a massive rush.

“Double-oh Seven, retreat immediately – repeat, retreat immediately! Seek cover now. Repeat, seek cover –”

The terrorist fired. Q's eyes widened as the staircase disappeared in an explosion of smoke and debris. Seconds later, and the whole building started to shake and the ceiling collapsed. They lost the feed when the cameras went dark; Q snapped frantically at the agents to report, but the comms were silent.

“Bond! Agent, come in. Christie! Shit! Bloody buggering fuck!”

He stared at the monitors, all dark now, and raised his head to bark a new slew of orders to the branch staff while he tried to connect to the agents again. But the silence was deafening.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thanks to @besanii for beta. xx
> 
> Find me @ princebenji.tumblr.com for Ben W, cats, and 00Q.

VI

 

It took a day and a half before Bond was safely back on UK soil.

Bond, on Q's order, had jumped into the stairwell just seconds before the bazooka was fired, straining his ankle and his gluteus maximus in the process, and earning himself a whole new set of cuts and scrapes. Coming out with only superficial injuries after having a whole building collapse on top of him gave new credibility to the nickname Eve had inadvertently coined and had spread like wildfire through the Six; he _was_ a bloody phoenix.

Q didn't know whether to kiss him or strangle him.

Bond was badly concussed though, and had lost consciousness for a few minutes after the explosion; thankfully an MRI scan didn't reveal any traumatic injuries to his brain, just minor swelling which was already going down. Medical ordered him on a two week mandatory medical leave before releasing him to his bonded mate's care. Q descended on him like a bird of prey and even Bond, evader extraordinaire, couldn't wriggle out of that agreement.

Q bitched at him over losing his earwig and his weapon, but that was mostly to cover his relief over having Bond back. The few silent minutes before Christie had come back online had been the longest of his life.

Most of the time Q didn't spare much thought to his gender or if he was displaying stereotypical Omega behaviours, but right now he had to admit he was acting like a textbook Omega. It was disorienting.

Q hovered, he nested, fluffed pillows, straightened duvets, aired the apartment, and nuzzled his Alpha to cover him in his scent and to soothe him with Omega pheromones. It didn't mean he didn't want to conk him in the head most of the time – Bond was a horrible patient – but even through his annoyance and eye-rolling, he couldn't help himself. His mate had been injured, and his rational brain had very little to do with his reaction. 

Bond was quite amused (Q thought Bond likely doubted his sanity).

“If I'd known you had a softer side, I would've got myself incapacitated a long time ago,” Bond teased. Q whined in annoyance.

“I hate you.”

“Of course you do.” Bond bussed the top of his head where Q was curled around Bond's body in bed, his head resting on Bond's chest. Bond was back, and that was all that mattered.

All thanks to Christie. 001 had been avenged and the terrorist cell quite thoroughly wiped out, thanks to 004 biding her time and taking the perfect shot, which had ended the last of the mob before the factory building collapsed entirely. She had then been able to contact the branch and request for medical evac for herself and Bond.

Intel was checking if there were any loose ends to be tied up, but as things stood MI6 expected no further trouble from that front. Q counted the mission a success, as did M.

As for Eve – Q perhaps shouldn't have been surprised to see Eve visiting Christie at Medical, sitting by her bedside and cradling her uninjured right hand between hers, but Q hadn't thought Eve would take an interest in a fellow Alpha, and a Double-oh agent at that. He considered these two formidable women together and had to smile; together they could be a destructive force, if they so wanted. Much like him and Bond. Eve had given him a pointed look when he tried to tease her about it, so Q had wisely quit and made a mental note to return to the subject later. Much later. Maybe when Eve was drunk.

Q had been extra careful to rest the past few days, knowing that if he was pregnant – it was still too early to tell – he was doing the pup no favours by running himself to the ground. Out of unspoken agreement, their days consisted of sleep, tea, food, movies, and Bond reading while Q worked on his laptop. He was looking forward to returning to their normal schedule, even though Bond had been telling him that he quite liked having a 24/7 nursemaid.

Seven days into Bond's medical leave, his mood took a predictable turn for the worse. He was on his feet now, tidying a bit around the flat and banging the closet and cabinet doors closed with more force than strictly necessary. If he had appreciated Q's help and caretaking before, he was now actively resenting it, declaring that he wasn't an invalid, and he didn't need looking after by Q, or indeed by anyone.

Q pretended not to notice his foul mood, because he knew it wasn't about him – it was about Bond's own restlessness. All the agents felt it; an itch, or a pull, to the field. He swallowed the admonishment that rose to his lips about Bond needing to take it easy and be patient. Bond knew that. Of course he did.

“And why is this flat such a pigsty?” Bond asked, tone aggravated, and Q looked over at him, raising his brows.

“Maybe because no one's done the cleaning for the past week and a half?”

“Oh, I wasn't aware you didn't know where we keep the vacuum cleaner.” Bond sounded stroppy.

It was true; Q wasn't very keen on household chores, and while Bond had been convalescing, their flat's overall tidiness had taken a nosedive. From his seat on the leather couch, Q had a clear view of the kitchen and the dishes that were piling on the counter tops. Not to mention the mail piled on the kitchen table. Q didn't care much, but he knew Bond was tidy by nature and by habit. He was raring for a fight which Q cared for even less, so he shrugged and didn't reply. It was just dirty dishes and some rubbish.

Come evening, he found Bond reclining on their bed under the duvet, mouth pursed and eyes unfocused, clearly lost in thought. Q stood still for a moment, looking at Bond. He knew something was brewing, but it was hard to tell what when Bond wasn't talking.

“Did you want anything?” Q asked, of a mind to put the kettle on.

“Whiskey, please,” Bond said, not looking at him. Q nodded and went to get it.

Upon his return, Bond accepted the tumbler without thanks. He placed his hand on the back of Q's neck, pulling him down for an unexpected kiss. Q flailed and stumbled onto the bed, swallowing a chastisement. Bond kissed him roughly, his tongue thrusting into Q's mouth without the least amount of finesse. Despite himself, Q started to get turned on and responded to the kiss, a natural physical reaction to his mate's proximity.

“Suck me,” Bond said, freeing one of his hands to palm at his crotch. Q's eyes followed the movement and saw that Bond was already naked under the duvet. His mouth watered. He gave his mate a reproachful look at the order, but slid down Bond's body and took his prick in his mouth, swallowing. Bond groaned out loud.

He looked up some moments later to see that Bond had thrown his head back and had closed his eyes. One of his hands was partly entangled in Q's hair and caressing his ear lazily. The other was squeezing his own rising knot, handling it much more roughly than Q had ever dared. After all, it was after a piece of anatomy that he didn't possess, himself, and was quite unsure as to how careful he would have to be. Bond wasn't a vocal lover most of the time.

Q kept up a steady sucking motion, pushing his own hips against the mattress, his cock fully hard now. He wasn't sure if Bond would be up to reciprocating; he didn't always, since he seemed to be one of those men who liked receiving best, and Q didn't want to ask at the risk of sounding like he was begging. Bond always brought him off after he had come, though, and Q didn't truly mind much either way as long as he wasn't left high and dry.

Bond was breathing harshly now, pushing his hips up as his hand guided, if not actually pushed, Q’s head down.

Q pulled his head back enough so that only the head was in his mouth when Bond started to come, keeping up a slick suction around the head where he knew it felt the best. He was still getting up on slightly shaky thighs when Bond picked up his tumbler and downed half of its contents in one go. Q paused, unsure if he was welcome for a kiss, or a cuddle.

Bond made an imperious gesture. Q found himself a place at his side, sighing in pleasure when Bond's hand threaded in his hair and his lips descended on Q's.

“Touch yourself,” Bond commanded. Q did so, biting his lip and then Bond's as he was taken over the edge and he came all over Bond's stomach. He closed his eyes and caught his breath before reaching for a tissue to wipe Bond clean.

“You're beautiful,” Bond said. He smacked Q's rump lightly when his back was turned, making Q flinch in surprise. “And also kind of irresistible when you do what I ask you to.”

“That wasn't asking. That was telling,” Q said, and although he meant it as a joke, he saw Bond frown and pull away. He bit his lip as he watched Bond empty the tumbler and put it away.

“I thought you liked doing that.”

“I did. I do. Which is why there's no reason to order me about.”

There was an awkward silence during which Q thought about the fact that they'd gone from being quartermaster and agent to being bonded partners so quickly – and with little, if any, courting – that it was a small wonder they were struggling to understand each other. He knew Bond could be abrasive and cold if he wished, and Q didn't expect him to be on his best behaviour constantly, but they needed to find an understanding about what was acceptable, and what was not.

“I don't mind it,” he said before Bond could speak. “To be more precise, I don't mind giving you something that you want or need. You're my partner, and an Alpha, so legally and traditionally you have some power over me. All I'm asking is some consideration because I'm not a hole to stick your cock into, nor a maid doing your bidding.”

“I didn't mean to imply you were,” Bond said crossly. “Jesus, Q, I'm fully aware you're more intelligent than I am. I would never downplay that to get more power over you. I – well, you told me you were a virgin before we got involved.”

“So you thought you'd let me know precisely what you wanted so I wouldn't have to guess,” Q concluded. “I appreciate the thought. Although if I didn't want to, I would find it really hard to say no, which I'm not so keen on.”

“You can say no whenever you want,” Bond said a bit brusquely, getting up. “I'm not some bloody brute. Or a rapist.”

Q fell back on the bed and cursed to himself as Bond wrapped himself in a dressing gown and left the room. Clearly there was much work to be done on the communication front; they meshed together beautifully both professionally and in bed, but it was one thing to handle Bond as an agent and quite another to try and navigate the trickier terrain of a more personal relationship.

No, Bond wasn't a nice man, all things considered – but Q wasn't drawn to nice men. He wasn't an easy one, either. But he was intelligent, and he was capable, and Q didn't doubt for a second that Bond would go to hell and back for his mate and his pup. So there was that.

Bond came back some minutes later, and ignored Q's hand when he reached out to his mate. Q bit his lip, searching for something to say, when Bond's words cut short his train of thought.

“You should get some sleep. You have to be up early.”

Q's brow pinched, and he nodded. “Right.”

And that was that. Bond turned his back on Q, who remained staring at the ceiling, wondering what was wrong, and how he could fix it.

~

He left for work the next morning without their customary parting buss. Bond read the morning paper and ignored Q as he readied for work. Q rolled his eyes, hurrying to the Tube. If Bond wanted to sulk about a stupid misunderstanding, he was welcome to it.

“Sir,” Jeremy said when Q entered the branch.

It was convenient that he looked like Jeremy Renner, Q thought, since that made it so much easier to remember his name. Plus Jeremy Renner was kind of hot; the minion Jeremy perhaps not quite as much. He was very skilled, though, like every other hand-picked member of his staff.

“Yes, Jeremy,” Q said, unwinding the scarf from his neck as he went to his station and brought it back to life. “Anything to report?”

“Well, sir, you asked us to keep an eye on those – 'glitches'. I've been monitoring the network for the past couple of days. There's been more. And what's worse, they seem to have got past the first two firewalls last night and had to be stopped by R personally.”

Q's eyes widened. He logged into the database to confirm Jeremy's findings, the minion standing behind his shoulder and explaining as he went. “This still doesn't look like a standard hacking exercise,” Q said. “Well, I think they've had their fun now. Time to show them that you do not fuck with MI-bloody-6. Not on my watch.”

He typed furiously, his frown deepening. “I don't know how, but they've managed to create a backdoor. That would suggest they've been in deep enough already. Why hasn't this shown up in anywhere else but my routine check-up?”

He aimed a general glare at his subordinates before pursing his mouth. There was no reason to start pointing fingers when the damage was already done; besides, as the branch head he shouldered the responsibility anyway.

“Right. Let's get to it. He's probably backdoored the compiler, so let's get him out of the system once and for all.” Q breathed in hard through his nose and stared at his monitor.

“Actually, sir, I was thinking. What if we lured him in?” Jeremy suggested.

Q's eyes snapped up to meet his. “A honeypot. I like the way you think, Jeremy.”

Somebody brought him tea at some point and Q drank it down without really noticing; some hours later, a sandwich appeared at his elbow and he wolfed it down just as he was securing the rest of the servers. Whoever had done this was a clever bastard, and it niggled at him that the only reason they had noticed – he had noticed – was that the hacker hadn't bothered to be very careful. A beginner's mistake, but this wasn't the work of a beginner; it felt like Silva all over again.

“Sir? Your phone's been ringing for the past minute,” Brad pointed out carefully. Q shook himself awake from the haze of code.

He reached for his phone, and saw James's name on the screen. “Oh.” He bit his lip, undecided, and then turned the phone off. Bond would understand; work came first.

Besides, he was still feeling a bit stroppy about the night before and that morning, when Bond had given him the cold shoulder. Bond could wait.

~

He bought takeaway for dinner on his way home; he knew for a fact there was nothing in the kitchen cupboards, and he hadn’t felt like cooking in any case. The Korean place was his favourite, and Bond hadn't seemed to mind the food – he'd actually gone for seconds both times they’d been – so it also doubled as a conciliatory gesture from his part. He'd tried to call Bond after he and Jeremy were done for the day, but the call had gone straight to Bond's voice mail. Q had been surprised to notice it was after six pm already. It wasn't unusual for him to lose sense of time, but he had been less forgetful after he and Bond had got together.

The flat was quiet when he went in. The smell of whiskey hit him next, almost making his eyes water. Bond was in the living room; he didn’t seem to notice Q and didn’t respond when Q called out his name by way of announcing his arrival.

Bond might not have had dinner, but he'd had plenty of whiskey, judging from the smell and the half-empty bottle on the counter. Medical had given detailed orders about his medication, and alcohol wasn't allowed. It hadn't been a problem until now. Q thought back to the drink he'd brought James the night before, and felt partly responsible.

“James?” he asked. “I brought dinner.”

“Go away,” Bond said.

“Don't be a child, James,” Q said. “I couldn't take your call.”

“I really don't care, Q.” Said slowly and deliberately.

Q crossed his arms and resisted the urge to toss the takeaway bag at James just to see if he could catch it; he was sprawled on the couch, looking at the telly with his legs bent, looking gorgeous as fuck. But he was also wasted and looked angry, and Q didn't know what to do.

“So I take it that you're not eating?” he said crisply. “Suit yourself. And if your meds don't mix well with the booze, I'm not taking you to Medical. Feel free to call Tanner.”

He eyed news headlines on his tablet while he ate in the kitchen, and left Bond's meal to sit on the counter, reminding himself that he wasn't childish enough to throw it in the bin. Soon after, he donned his parka and headed out. He half-expected Bond to ask where he was going, but he didn't. He winced at the cold outside, and hurried to the nearest Tube station, tugging the hood of his parka over his head.

He alighted at Westminster and wandered about, still fuming to himself. Bond was being an arse. He could sympathise with the agent's need to be on the field, but that was no excuse to treat your bonded mate as a nuisance. The streets were busy at this time of night, and Q enjoyed the hustle and bustle, and the beautiful Christmas lights and decorations. It started to snow as the temperature was dropped further; he had forgot his mittens, so he popped into the nearest pub to avoid freezing.

Buying a beer and finding himself a seat, he messaged Eve. Busy?

Eve replied a minute later. At HQ, meeting with M in five. What's up boffin? Xx

I'm taking a break from Bond sitting. Wouldn't mind a few drinks with a friend.

I'm tied up tonight, but free this weekend if you are? We can ask Bill to join, or Christie, if you want. Xx

Eve and her Double-Oh. Q had to smile despite himself.

Sounds good. C u tomorrow. Love you lots. Xxxx

You too. Let me know if I need to shoot bond (again).

She ended her message with a winky emoji, and perhaps it shouldn't have been funny but it made Q smile. He finished his beer and ordered a cider and crisps just to have something to do. He wanted to check on Bond, but reminded himself that even though Bond was currently acting like a teenager, he was still a grown man, and would survive a night on his own. He kept himself occupied by messaging R, who was on night shift, and amusing himself with stories from the branch. (His underlings had just learned that 003 was apparently a lightweight who got wasted on a single bottle of beer, and were taking bets on whether he could seduce the lady he had set his sights on or not.)

The apartment was deadly quiet by the time he got back. He'd been prepared to find Bond up and about, but all the lights were off, and the living room was empty.

Q hoped that the agent hadn't left altogether; although his injuries weren't that severe, he was still on partial bed rest and it wouldn't do to simply bugger off into the city. Secretly Q thought that he wouldn't have been surprised if Bond had gone out to pull, just to vex him. (He would be more than vexed, but there would be no point in telling Bond that; if his actions were of any indication, he wouldn't care either way.)

He went to the bedroom, and heard snoring. On closer look there was an empty whiskey bottle on the set of drawers next to the bed. Bond was lying on top of the duvet, still clothed, drooling on his pillow rather unattractively. Q wrinkled his nose. He'd always known that Bond was into whiskey, especially after coming down from a mission, but this?

Perhaps he should have known better, but he had expected more from Bond. Not this. Not Bond shrugging him off, and shutting him out.

He spent the night in the guest room, cold and alone.

~

The next week passed by in a blur.

Bond was declared fit for field duty again, and he was out of the country the day before Christmas Eve.

Q finally worked up the courage to buy a pregnancy test the day after Bond had gone, and spent an agonising five minutes in the toilet, only to throw away the test and to return to work when it came out negative.

He spent Christmas Eve at his work station, handling the operatives that were out in the field and needed him in their ear. Bond seemed to have lost his earwig, again, and was currently out of touch, but no-one was worried quite yet. They had ousted the hacker from their system, but Q was keeping a keen eye on all the usual attempts – they were bound to get their share, and during the holidays it was always worse – just to see if they were coming back and falling into the honeytrap he and Jeremy had built. He went home for the night, leaving just the skeleton crew to mind the branch.

He came in early on Christmas morning, and Linda immediately blushed when she saw him.

“Good morning, sir. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Lindy,” he returned. “Any news? Double-oh Nine reported in yet?”

“She touched base at four this morning. Mission successful. She's flying in later tonight.” Linda was still looking a bit flushed, which peaked his curiosity.

“Excellent. Now what else have you got?”

He rounded to her work station and peered into her screen. It was a security feed, the camera pointing to an alley between two buildings. Q cleared his throat a little when he realised that there were two people in the alley, one standing with his back against the brick wall, and another kneeling in front of him with his face mashed against the other's crotch, his head moving back and forth.

“Well, someone got lucky,” he said lightly. He didn't miss the almost agonised look that Linda shot him, so he looked closer. The feed was grainy, and he blamed thisfor not recognising his own mate at first glance.

Bond, getting head in a back alley.

“Have you recognised his partner?” he asked, his voice still light and steady.

Linda nodded, her eyes still on his face. “It's the mark. Victor Jones.”

Q breathed out through his nose, and followed the action on the screen, his eyes not missing the way Bond's head fell back, his hands clutching the mark's head.

“He's established contact, then. Keep me informed if anything new comes up.”

He went to his own work station, staring at the tables he drew up – budgeting was going to be the end of him one day – and trying to wrestle his thoughts back to submission. Bond was getting oral sex from the mark. They'd researched Jones very well beforehand and nothing had hinted at him being interested in men. Q racked his brain to remember the rest of his file; he was a Beta, a secretary to their target, Ben Howard, and currently single; their angle had been for Bond to run into him at the gym where he worked out (an almost obsessive gym goer as he was) and work from there.

Either Bond had seen a quicker way in, or he was so sex-starved he would fuck a mark out in the open.

They hadn't had sex since his last heat. The atmosphere had been downright frosty ever since their semi-argument that had gone unresolved.

The night before Bond was due to leave, Q had worked late and had only got home a bit after one thirty. He'd come in hoping that Bond was asleep already. Bond had been in bed, but not asleep, and Q could tell Bond had wanted some intimacy from his scent; however, Q himself hadn't been in the mood after being ignored so profoundly during the past week. He had spent the night in the guest room again, not bothering to get up when he heard Bond puttering about in the morning.

It was the first time since their bonding that he hadn't personally seen him off. R had kitted him for the mission, which was another first.

Bond would know he'd see the tape. Maybe it was Bond's way of telling him that if he wasn't getting it at home, he would be getting it out there in the field.

It was all right, Q told himself. He wasn't in love with Bond. He'd only agreed to his suit because he wanted a pup. If Bond wanted to get off with someone else, well, that was his business, and Q wasn't going to care.

It was odd, though; everything about him and James had suggested that they would be a good match and have plenty of offspring. Now it had been two heats and nothing, but a bond that seemed to be unravelling before his very eyes.

~

“Happy New Year!”

Eve hugged him just as the clock struck twelve, landing a wet smack on his cheek before accosting Bill under the mistletoe. Q downed the rest of his champagne in one go and placed the flute on the table top with a less than steady hand, running his hands through his mess of a hair and sending pieces of glitter flying everywhere.

He blamed Eve for the glitter. And the eye-liner. He looked like the kind of boy who would charge you for his company, he'd complained to Eve; she had laughed her ass off and told him he looked like a million quid, and also completely adorable. He didn't know why he ever listened to her.

He needed more booze. He was going to regret it come tomorrow, but.

“Fuck you, future me,” Q slurred to himself, and headed to the kitchenette to join Eve and Tanner, and Tanner's wife Susan. She didn't bat an eye when her tipsy husband wrapped an arm around Q and declared him the brightest person in her Majesty's employ, kissing his cheek.

“Also, look how pretty,” Tanner told Susan, who laughed and agreed that Q was really pretty. Q groaned and tried to bury his face against Tanner's shoulder.

“Careful, Bill, don't let Bond hear you,” Eve called out, handing out another drink to Q which he accepted gratefully.

“I think I'm safe since he's not even in the country,” Tanner said, winking at Q who forced a smile.

He was drunk and needed to pee, and he was feeling vaguely unhappy about the whole thing. Laura had called earlier, apologising for something Q didn't quite catch. Soon after his mother had called, scolding him for not telling them about his bonding and insisting that they needed to visit and be properly introduced. So that particular cat was out of the bag. Q couldn't even manage to be pissed. Hugh had texted, too. But there hadn't been a word from Bond.

They'd talked on the comms some days earlier. Q had been painfully aware that they weren't alone and that the comms would be recorded; that he was standing in the middle of the branch, that he was so unhappy he could have screamed. They talked about the mission, neither mentioning Jones specifically, and had ended the comms tersely with no promises of later contact.

And damn it, he missed the bloody idiot. Missed the sex, too. The banter. The warm body next to him in bed.

He missed James, period. And he didn't think he'd managed to eat one proper meal after Bond had been away; his stomach wouldn't let him. Something felt wrong with his throat, like something had permanently lodged in there, making it hard to breathe.

And it really didn't help that when he'd complained to Tanner earlier about Bond's mood suddenly taking a U-turn the chief of staff had looked at him sadly, and told him that the day Bond had been moping home alone and drunk had been Vesper's birthday. From past experience, Tanner knew that Bond always turned to whiskey for comfort.

Q had stared at him incredulously. “And he couldn't have told me that?”

Tanner had coughed. “I believe it's considered bad manners to go on about past lovers to your current one.”

So Q added the desire to conk his Alpha over the head to the list of things he wanted to do to him by the time he got home. If Bond had as much as hinted that he was going through an emotionally trying time Q would have been more understanding. How the hell were they supposed to be in a relationship together when they didn't even talk?

“I don't like seeing you all on your lonesome,” Eve pouted in his ear, wrapping an arm around him and bussing his cheek. “My beautiful, beautiful Q. The loveliest boy in the room.”

Q relaxed against her and sighed forlornly. “You can blame my stubborn and stupid Alpha,” he said, not caring that he sounded whiny. “He's half a world away fucking other people.” She hugged him against her, shushing him.

“He's coming back soon, boffin. And I don't think you have to worry about Bond anyway. The man is smitten.”

Q blushed and shook his head as if to refute her claim. “We have an understanding. He's not in love with me.”

“I think he could be, if you let him.” Eve looked at him shrewdly. “Now, here's a bottle of perfectly good champagne that needs to be opened. Come help me, boffin.”

His mobile phone vibrated in his pocket, and Q managed to fish it out after several failed attempts. He didn't recognise the number, but answered nonetheless.

“Yes?”

“Happy New Year, Quartermaster.”

Bond's voice, light and mocking. He didn't sound all that drunk, but then he shouldn't have, since he was on a mission.

“The same to you, agent,” Q returned, and retreated to the bathroom. They were quiet for a moment, and then Q asked, “Have you been injured yet? Or lost your equipment?”

“Everything's in good working order,” Bond said. He still sounded slightly mocking and Q's temper flared.

“Yes, I saw. Out in the back alley. Seemed to work just fine. If that was all –” he trailed off expectantly, hoping that Bond would just hang up; he didn't feel like making peace, or having a shouting match. He just wanted to get drunk and forget all about the past year, which had been such a bloody waste of time in more ways than one.

“Are you drunk?” Bond asked, and thank God at least the mocking tone of voice was gone.

“So what if I am? Me and seven billion other people. Sue me.”

“What about –”

Q didn't want him to finish. “There's no pup, alright? I'm not pregnant. Apparently we're not a good match. Although if we'd thought about it a bit longer and not just rushed into it we would've figured it out soon enough anyway.” He blinked in annoyance when he realised there were tears running down his cheeks. Bloody alcohol. “So happy fucking New Year, Bond. I'll see you when I see you, I suppose.”

He ended the call, and switched off his mobile. Q looked at himself in the mirror and scoffed; he couldn't return to Eve's New Year party all red-eyed and puffy. At least the eye-liner was water-proof, he thought, and suppressed a drunken giggle. He splashed cold water on his face and rearranged his hair, flicking off as much glitter as he could.

He ended up spending the night on the couch, mashed against Eve who was snoring away on the other end, and before he fell asleep he wished that he could just do everything all over again, starting from joining MI-bloody-6. He would know to avoid Bond from the start. He would either get it on with Jack or keep on looking until he found another ordinary, uncomplicated Alpha who would knock him up at first heat. Under no circumstances would he start anything with a Double-oh.

And he most certainly wouldn't start developing feelings when they weren't wanted.

~

It all went downhill very fast after the mission was wrapped and Bond flew back in three days later.

Victor Jones was dead, as was their target, Ben Howard. Q didn't know the details, but he told R he'd read the mission report after Bond had submitted it.

Bond all but stalked to the branch injured, if the blood stains on his clothing were of any indication, heading straight to Q's work station where he was conversing with R over the latest attempts of hacking against the MI6 mainframe. His face was thunderous, blue eyes blazing.

Q raised an unimpressed eyebrow at the sight of him. “Agent, with me,” he said, heading straight to his office.

This wasn't the time nor place, that much was obvious, but Bond was riled up and Q knew he wouldn't stand for any further delays. Q's subordinates had given him a wide berth; an injured Alpha was on the prowl, and no-one wanted to get in his way. Luckily Q wasn't as easily spooked. 

“This is how you greet me,” Bond honest-to-God growled, pushing Q against the office door. Q's temper instantly flared and he pushed back, realising his mistake a split second later when Bond growled louder and crowded him against the door, pushing against him hard. Q knew he couldn't move a centimetre unless Bond wanted him to; he was well and truly pinned.

It was impossible to tell whether Bond wanted to fuck him, or rip him to shreds. Q's heartrate doubled; he levelled his breathing with some effort, and met his Alpha's gaze calmly.

“If you're going to hit me I suggest you reconsider,” he said.

“Don't provoke me, Q,” Bond bit out. He leaned in abruptly and Q banged the back of his head against the door in an instinctive reaction to back away. It felt so wrong, pulling away from his mate, but Bond was not in his right mind; neither of them were.

“Well you're not going to fuck me, either,” Q said, tone acerbic. “I know you've been fucking Victor Jones for the past few weeks. Good for you for getting some, I suppose. Sorry it got cut short.”

He regretted the words as soon as they were out; he honestly hadn't intended to mention Jones at all. The fact that Bond had been having sex on a mission wasn't new, and certainly wasn't at the root of his annoyance.

“Since when are you jealous of a mark?” Bond sounded angry and incredulous. “You know what they say about projecting, Q? You found someone else to fuck you while I was away? Someone proper?”

He spat out the last word as though it tasted sour. He leaned in again, pushing his nose against Q's neck and inhaling deeply. It had always been a comforting gesture between them, but this was frightening. Q's eyes started to prickle despite himself, mouth dropped open in shock at the accusation at the same time. He shook his head, unable to make a sound. He knew he smelled of Eve, and maybe R and Tanner, but Bond should know better than to feel threatened by any of them.

Bond mashed their mouths together. It was as much a bite as it was a kiss, and Q hated his body for giving in when he felt the rush of slick and the almost dizzying effect of Bond's pheromones.

Finally, Bond wrenched his mouth away to get some air, and Q desperately wheezed in a breath, dark spots forming before his eyes. He struggled against the hold Bond had of him, noticing only now that Bond was holding both his wrists captive.

“Unhand me right now, agent,” he said, getting angrier by the second, at himself, at his own body betraying him, at Bond for barging in and treating him like some sort of sex doll. He sagged when Bond let go of him abruptly, stepping back, his chest heaving and his hands clenching and unclenching. He'd never seen Bond quite like that before.

Q rubbed at his wrists and circled around his desk to sit down, fearing his knees might just give out.

“So, equipment?” he asked, making his voice as cool as detached as he could. Judging by the way Bond's eyes narrowed, he succeeded a little too well. His scent was overwhelming.

“Fuck the equipment,” Bond said. “Explain what you meant.”

Q didn't bother pretending he didn't know what Bond was referring to. “We got together way too soon. We didn't think it through. Let's face it, I'm healthy, you're healthy, there's no reason for me not to be pupped after two heats. We don't know each other. It seems that we don't even trust each other.” He took a deep breath to calm himself down. “I think we should just admit that we made a mistake getting together.”

Bond's eyes were blood-shot, and he stared at Q, his mouth twisting into a painful smile. “Three months, Quartermaster. We've been bonded for three months. You want to end us because you haven't got pregnant after two heats?” He rubbed at his face, his stubble making a scratchy sound against his palm. “I wouldn't have expected you to give up so easily.”

“Not just that,” Q said quietly. “We don’t...talk. It seems sex is all we're good at and if that doesn't even produce a pup what's the point? I don't expect love from you. I know better. But I do expect some sort of partnership and that has been so badly lacking it's practically non-existent.”

“So your solution is to kick me out? Have you thrown out my things yet?” Bond looked like he wanted to smash things, and his scent was almost overpowering.

“No, I haven't,” Q said. “Look, I don't understand why I'm the bad guy here. We don't talk. You treat me like a nuisance, rather than a bonded mate. Next thing I know you’re drunk and passing out in our bed. It's clear that you don't want – this, you don't want a partner, hell, you don't probably even want a pup, so why are we together? Why did you approach me about this when this is not what you want?”

He tried to modulate his voice to keep the Alpha from knowing how genuinely angry and upset he was. He saw from Bond's face that he wasn't fooled.

“Honest answer?” Bond let out a mirthless little snort. “I knew you wanted to settle down. I didn't want you to end up with the first run-of-the-mill Alpha you came across, who doesn't get you and wouldn't appreciate you, just because you got broody.”

Q blinked slowly. “You wanted me so that no-one else could have me,” he said. “I'm sorry but that's not good enough, James. That's not good enough for me.”

Bond's face was stony. “At least I wanted you, Q. You. Not your bloody genes for a potential pup. I know that's all you want from me. You can talk about partnership all you like but there's only one role in this for me, and that is acting as your stud.”

Q bit his lips, and tried to keep the avalanche of words at bay, and failed. “Well you didn't seem so hard-pressed to be my stud! Let's be honest then. The sex part isn't exactly a hardship for me either. But you didn't come into this blind. I made it very clear from the start that I'm looking to start a family. And I'm sure it's nice and convenient for you to have an Omega at your beck and call, without having to go out on the pull. But that's not enough for me. Not when you don't make the barest effort to act like an actual partner. And if you're not ready to do that, well, I think I already suggested we part ways.”

He blinked furiously, absolutely refusing to cry in front of Bond, who was suddenly very pale, and very, very still.

“Is that what you want?”

“Here's what I want,” Q snapped. “I want a bloody pup so badly I could literally scream. I want you to stop being so hung up over a woman that died years ago that you start shutting me out just because it happens to be her birthday. I want some bloody companionship and some consideration, not just your cock!”

Q took off his glasses in one angry movement and wiped at his eyes, sniffling. If Bond started to defend himself, mock him, or fly into an Alpha rage, he'd reach for his stun gun and not feel even a little guilty. Instead there was silence, and Q put his glasses back on, stealing a glance at the agent.

Bond was staring at him quietly, nostrils flaring. Q knew that his scent had to be something else; he was upset and scared, and angry, and frankly heartbroken that there still wasn't a pup after all that trying.

“I'm sorry, Q.” Bond looked like he wanted to say something more, but then shook his head. “I ran into Tanner on my way to the branch. He has the equipment. Everything's in working order.”

With that Bond left, and didn't even bang the door shut on his way out. Q let his head fall to his hands, wondering if he'd just destroyed what little had remained of their working relationship. Not to mention their personal one.

Tanner was waiting for him outside of his office, and Q was grateful for his tact when he simply handed over Bond's equipment without any additional comments. His office was soundproof, thankfully, but people had witnessed them going in, and Bond leaving in less than high spirits. Q knew his subordinates well enough to know that there would be gossip. Nothing overt, or disrespectful, but people would talk.

“I'll be in my office,” he said to R, who simply nodded and returned to his work. 

Putting his personal matters firmly out of his mind, Q checked the Walther PPK and the radio transmitter, which apart from a few scratches were in fine working order. He ignored the minute trembling in his hands, intent on focusing on his work. Everything else could wait.

He picked up one of the contact lenses Bond had returned and put it into the reader, waiting for the footage to download for access. He wasn't sure yet what use the recordings would be, post-mission, but he couldn't deny the temptation to see if Bond had actually used them, and if there would be anything important in there that wouldn't come up in his mission report.

He was a professional, he reminded himself. He could watch Bond woo the mark if it came to that. No matter what his personal feelings, Bond was still an MI6 agent, and Q would always do his job without letting his feelings interfere with either his responsibilities or his judgement.

The running time of the recording was 96 hours. Q skipped to the very end to see where it ended. Bond was sitting in a plane, accepting a tumbler of whiskey from a stewardess – figured – and reaching for his eye. On his way home, then.

His interest now piqued even further, Q sat back and started the recording from roughly the half-way mark on quadruple-speed. He could delegate a more careful re-watch to any of his subordinates later; Q made a mental note to make sure the task ended to whoever next pissed him off.

The recording showed Bond going to lunches and dinners, sometimes alone and sometimes with the mark, watching Jones converse on the phone, and going through his phone and the laptop while Jones was sleeping. Sending text messages to R's phone to relay the information.

Watching fireworks on the night sky, a quick glance to the watch on his wrist, a minute shake of the head. Watching Jones walking around his apartment without any clothes on, and crawling back to the bed with a condom in his hand, kissing Bond's palm when he reached for the condom. The recording continued sometime later on a balcony overlooking the city where he smoked a cigarette; another glance at his watch, picking up his mobile and choosing Q's number.

Q paused the recording to compose himself. This was the recording from New Year. The ugly, aborted conversation that he had ended by hanging up on Bond. He continued watching.

The view kept changing, suggesting that Bond was walking around as he talked, and then smashed his mobile on the concrete flooring. He went back inside the apartment, picked up a glass and a bottle, and started to drink.

He was in a car with Jones, driving, when a car came out of nowhere and t-boned their vehicle. Jones was thrown against Bond and his blood splashed all over his field of vision; a brief run and a gunfight, which ended with Bond gunning down the target and his bodyguard. Back at his hotel room, throwing his things together in his duffel bag, a brief visit to the loo to wash his face clear of blood, his eyes in the mirror so tired and so wild. Back to the local agent who hooked him up for his return flight.

It was nasty and gruesome, and exhausting just to look at.

Then, Bond had come back and headed straight to Q Branch where his bonded mate had, in so many words, said that he intended to leave him.

Q closed the program and stared at his darkened monitor with unseeing eyes, ditching his façade of professionalism. Their argument had been ugly, and Q was man enough to admit it had been partly because of him. He had been raring for a fight since even before Christmas, when Bond had started to shut him out. It wasn't all his doing, though; Bond's behaviour had been unacceptable, if not actually violent, and Q's concerns were valid. They couldn't go on like this. Q refused to.

But did he want it to end like this? Q's stomach clenched at the thought, but he forced himself to think, and not act on impulse. Think back on his life before James.

Late nights and all-nighters at the branch, a silent flat awaiting him whenever he found the time to actually leave work. Often he didn't even bother, preferring to nap on his office couch between shifts. Hormone suppressants. His hopeful – if clumsy – attempts at dating, which always ended in disappointment.

His crush on Bond, and the feeling in his chest when he'd realised that Bond was interested in him.

The dizzy excitement of bonding with James, and the anticipation of getting pregnant and starting a family.

It wasn't like him to give up without a fight. It was also unlike him to be afraid to voice his wants, and then go on a strop when things didn't go his way. Which meant he needed to do something about it before Bond got it in his head to do another of his disappearing stunts, perhaps for good this time.

He was out of his office in just a few strides, snatching his parka and his satchel bag from his work station. R looked at him quizzically; Q told him he was going out for a while and would be back for the night shift.

The Tube ride seemed to last forever, even though it was well after lunch hours and there shouldn't have been so many people; Q jogged the rest of the way to his apartment, hoping that Bond would be in. Hoping that Bond would be sober, or at least willing to talk.

He let himself in slowly, knowing better than to make any sudden moves when an upset Alpha, who also happened to be a trained agent, was possibly on-site. At first look the apartment seemed empty, but then the sound of a shower running hit his ears. He shed his parka and his bag and kicked off his shoes as he went deeper into the flat, pausing to unbutton his shirt and his trousers and pushing them down his hips and off from his body. Tank top, socks and pants followed, and finally he was naked.

He didn't knock.

He was hit with a wall of steam as he waded in, unafraid, knowing that James would have heard him come, and would know him by his steps, and his scent. The water swirling into the drain was pinkish in colour, and Q's mouth twisted in sympathy. James had been wounded, then. The agent was standing under the spray with his back to the door, recoiling just the tiniest bit when Q wrapped his arms around his torso from behind, pressing his chest against James's wet back.

“I'm sorry,” he mouthed into Bond's neck. “I'm sorry, James.”

Bond turned slowly, his face very drawn and his eyes red, and Q brought his hands to his face and pulled him in for a kiss. It was very different from the rough, biting kiss from the office; Bond's mouth was unmoving under his. Q wanted to be closer, wanted in, wanted to apologise more than just saying words that didn't mean anything.

Some moments passed under the hot water, and Q noticed belatedly that he was still wearing his glasses; they were fogging up, and he couldn't see anything anyway, nothing else but James. His mate was slowly starting to respond, his hands coming to rest on Q's hips, not pulling him closer but not pushing him away, either, so Q counted that as a small victory. Then Bond raised his hand to Q's jaw and pulled his mouth away, only to lock his mouth on Q's bonding mark, causing Q's body to shudder against James. Neither of them was aroused, not yet; both were hurting, and they had been apart for too long.

“I don't want you to go.” Said against Bond's palm, where it was placed across his mouth, and it felt like a small admission to make.

“I'm not going,” Bond said, his first words since Q had come in, and Q's knees weakened in relief.

“It's not why I want you,” he said, face soft and honest. “It's not the only reason, James. Not just the sex. That's not what this is.”

Bond took this in, his eyes scanning Q's face for honesty. Q met his gaze, unflinching, needing Bond to see really see him. Finally, Bond's eyes softened, and he pressed his forehead against Q's.

“Not for me, either.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thanks to @besanii for beta. xx All remaining mistakes are my own.

VII

 

In hindsight, his reaction had been partly about pride.

He had become emotionally invested. Q was big enough man to admit that his crush was big enough to be visible from space; he could also admit that a part of him had been upset at the thought of not being enough. And it had rankled, wondering if one partner simply wasn't enough for Bond; if the comfort and the security that came with being bonded wasn't what he wanted, not when he was used to the thrill and the chase.

Bond had hurt his pride, the part of him that believed that his partner shouldn't look to anyone else, and letting go of that was harder than he would have believed.

Worst of it was that they weren’t married, and as such Bond hadn’t broken any explicit promises or agreements. But didn’t he realise — didn’t he _understand_ that Q needed more than just a physical relationship?

No, of course he didn’t. But would Bond have agreed to the whole thing – would he have suggested it in the first place– if he had known about Q’s crush? Would he have taken one hard look at Q’s hopeful face and decided that he didn’t need the complication that came with a bonded mate and a pup? Q told himself he wasn’t lovesick, but it was hard being on the cusp and yet afraid to fall.

They had reached a truce of sorts after Bond's most recent homecoming, seeing that neither wanted to separate, and had agreed that they needed to communicate better. Q could have sworn Bond paled upon the realisation that he, too, would have to learn to talk about his expectations and his misgivings. Not that Q was any better at any of it, but he felt certain that they could learn. They were two grown men, damn it, and in possession of reasonable intelligence. There was no reason why they couldn't make it work.

(Eve had cackled when he told her this. “My god, you're such a big romantic, Q.” 

“Bond doesn't expect romance. I'm not going to make a fool out of myself,” Q said defensively.

“I still think you're both daft. Oh whatever, you're not going to listen to me anyway, are you? All I'm saying is that a romantic gesture or two wouldn't go amiss in your situation.”)

Q had pondered this for a few days. It was true that he and Bond didn't do a lot of things couples normally did together. They didn't do dates, for one. They often had dinner at home, eating while Q worked and Bond watched the telly, both conversing only intermittently. It hadn't bothered him before, since they weren't exactly what one would call an ordinary couple, but if he wanted more then perhaps he should try and get more, and not wait for things to happen.

“I'm taking you out to dinner on Friday,” he told Bond. He made sure not to fidget, or sound uncertain, meeting Bond's eyes squarely. “It's a nice place, so wear something nice.”

It came out slightly clumsy, but he refused to feel ridiculous about it. Eve had told him romance was a good idea, and Bond was the traditional type that enjoyed wining and dining. Bond blinked in surprise before his mouth curled into a pleased smile that made Q's insides relax.

“Looking forward to it, Q.”

The restaurant Q picked came highly recommended by Tanner, who always took his wife there for their anniversary celebrations and Valentine's Day. The ambience was understated and relaxed, and the food was excellent. Also, the security was top-notch. After this glowing review, Q checked their website and was pleasantly surprised to see that they boasted two Michelin stars. That should suit Bond, then; Bond was a food snob whereas he, Q, detested rigidly formal places. He swore tuxedos made him itch. The fact that they made him look all of twelve years old was just icing on the cake.

“Also,” Tanner said, “it's great for romance. Bond will be eating right out of your hand by the end of the evening.”

“Don't be cheeky, Bill,” Q admonished, ignoring his smirk while he happily hacked into the restaurant's booking system to secure a table for two for the following Friday.

~

Even if Bond were an arse about many things, he'd been right about the flat. It was a mess even by Q's admittedly lax standards. Back when it had been just him, he hadn't bothered to clean that often either, but now there were two of them spending significantly more time at the flat than before, and it showed. Not that it made him any more likely to pick up the vacuum cleaner. (Truth was, he wasn't sure where Bond had stashed it, and as far as Q was concerned it could stay there anyway.)

Instead, he hired a cleaning service through Eve. She was all too happy to help, rubbing her hands together in glee when Q appeared at her work station asking for a favour.

“I've seen the state of your flat, boffin,” she said, crossing her legs and steepling her fingers smugly . “I've been waiting for you to ask!”

“Well, why didn't you say anything?” he asked crossly. She always seemed to know and notice things she had no business knowing.

“I'll have you know that I do not meddle with other people's business,” Eve said. They shared a deadpan look before Q snorted. “As long as you don't expect me to actually show up in person. I'm not really the kind of person who mops floors, you know. Besides, I'm already helping someone else and there's only so much housework I can do.”

“How's Christie?” Q asked slyly. But if he'd been hoping to catch Eve unawares, he was sorely disappointed. She simply smiled and her serene expression confirmed several things he had already suspected. Namely, she had it bad.

“Anne–” she emphasised the name, “–is being really smart and responsible about her recovery programme. Unlike some other Double-ohs who'd best remain unnamed.”

“I'm glad. She is a remarkable agent,” Q said. Eve's smile softened.

“And a really remarkable woman.”

~

The cleaners were a young Beta couple who came in one morning when Q and Bond were leaving for work. Bond went down to get the car, and Q used the opportunity to pull one of them aside and stress that under no circumstances were they to put any suits or suit pieces they might find in the regular washer, but send them to the dry cleaners around the corner (“the posh one, not the shite one”). Also they weren't to touch any tech they saw lying around. Actually, it would be best if they didn't go to the bedroom at all. The young man wrinkled his nose and sighed.

“I know. Miss Moneypenny told us.”

Deciding that he didn't want to know what exactly Eve had said about the flat or its inhabitants, Q wished them a lovely day and made his escape.

Q retreated to one of the secluded labs in the basement to find his own happiness and good humour, telling Bond he would be home late. R referred to the note left by Q whenever anyone came asking for him: Not available. Testing explosives.

He came home very late that evening, smelling of soot and gunpowder, eyes tired but happy and bright. Bond took one look at him, smiled, and brought him a cup of tea.

~

Friday came all too soon; Q hadn't had the time to make up his mind about whether this was a date or just an ordinary dinner. 

Bond was breathtakingly handsome in one of his navy blue suits. Q wasn't too shabby, either, in his charcoal grey suit he only took out when the occasion called for it.

The food was perfect, just like Tanner had said, and the house wine more than passingly adequate. Q, in fact, started to drown his nerves in his wine. He was out of his element here. This wasn't them. They were agent and Quartermaster, in each other's ears and on each other's nerves, not a couple who drew envious looks from all over the restaurant.

For one who was used to blending in the background, it was odd to be noticed. Odd to think that people looked at them and saw an ordinary couple. He kept stealing glances at Bond's face, feeling an almost magnetic pull. But shyness overcame him and he couldn't quite maintain eye contact, which made Bond look at him curiously.

“Relax, Q,” Bond whispered to him across the table, which only served to make him more nervous.

“This is ridiculous,” he said, exasperated. “I have no idea what people do on dates.”

“Talk and eat?” Bond suggested with a smirk. Q raised his eyebrows, unimpressed.

“You are an actual child, Bond,” he said, but he relaxed a bit. This was Bond. Handsome as hell, and actually quite frightening in many ways that Q was all too familiar with, but still…Bond. James.

Q blamed the wine for the silly jokes he kept making just to get Bond to laugh. He played with his hair and his wineglass flirtatiously. An altogether foreign concept for a scrawny boffin like him. He didn't go on a lot of dates. Especially not with infuriatingly handsome double-oh agents with their pick of partners. 

The wine had to be staining his lips because Bond kept staring at his mouth; desire pooled in his belly. His eyes dropped to Bond's mouth, in turn, and he wanted to suck on that pouty lower lip and drink in Bond's breath. He realised he was staring only after Bond had to repeat his name.

“You have a very peculiar look on your face,” Bond teased, and Q flushed scarlet.

“I think I'm pretty drunk,” he said. Bond snorted, amused.

“I kind of noticed.”

They linked hands on top of the table. Q shivered when Bond ran his fingers along the inside of his wrist, nails catching very slightly.

“Isn't it funny that we're on our first date after we've been bonded for months?”

“I would've loved to take you out anytime, Q,” Bond said. “Only I didn't feel it would have been appropriate to ask. Or, indeed, welcome.”

“I would've said yes,” Q said blithely. He snorted at the raise of Bond's eyebrow. “Surprised? You must know half the office is panting after you.”

Bond shrugged dismissively. “Hardly half the office. Maybe one third.”

They talked about more of their likes and dislikes. Q liked Rolling Stones quite a bit, and Bond teased him about having the music taste of an old man. Q retaliated after learning that Bond liked spaghetti westerns. At some point, Q realised he'd gone on a rant about the merits of Keats's poetry as compared to, well, anyone else's really and Bond surprised him by reciting the first verses of Ode to a Nightingale from memory (he blamed Eton).

A thought had been simmering in his brain for a while, and he had considered discussing it with Bond but the time had never been right. It wasn't the right time right now, either; they were having a good time, relaxed and in good spirits. A reminder of their problems would only serve to put an end to a lovely evening.

~

It was frighteningly easy to bury his longing for a pup in his work. There was always a crisis going on somewhere that needed to be dealt with, an agent who needed his guidance, a string of code to be written. It still nagged at him, though, and it was finally time to do something about it, to stop waiting for Mother Nature to do her job, and maybe help her along. He was done waiting.

Q had spent a long time looking for a fertility clinic with a good reputation in London. Infertility as such wasn't common, and usually only plagued Omegas who were well into their thirties or older, and even then only rarely. He lucked out on getting an appointment with a doctor whose waiting list was normally months long. Months! Q didn't think he could have waited for months. Not when he had waited this long already and yearned for a little bundle of his own, more and more every day.

Q fit in the appointment between a branch head meeting and handling 006, citing personal business and leaving the branch to R. He took a taxi from outside the HQ to Islington, turning off his mobile phone and willing his hands to stop trembling.

It was ridiculous. This was all just simple biology; it wasn't the Middle Ages. If modern science could prove one of Einstein's theories overnight then surely they could put a pup in his belly. He told himself that seeing a fertility doctor didn't mean he was conceding defeat; it was quite the opposite. This was just another thing he had to meet head-on and fix. Chances were that he would be prescribed a pill or two, and be pregnant come next heat with no further trouble.

The young man at the reception welcomed him in and gave him a patient information sheet to fill while he waited. Q was too caught up in looking around the clinic to pay attention.

He hadn't really known what to expect, half afraid that the clinic would have baby photos and motivational posters everywhere he looked, putting cruel emphasis on what he was lacking. But the walls were mostly bare, save a couple of framed art posters, and pot plants sat on the windowsills. It was cosy and neutral, probably designed to put clients at ease.

Q crossed his legs while he waited, choosing to stare at the opposite wall and doing his best to ignore the couple waiting for their own appointment. They were slightly older than him, in their mid-thirties perhaps. The Omega of the pair gave him an encouraging smile when their eyes met; Q quickly looked away.

Dr Logan was a Beta with a degree in reproductive endocrinology; a short, kindly woman in her forties, whose firm handshake managed to put Q's mind at ease. She was the professional here. She would help him have his baby. He sat down on the designer chair opposite from hers and grasped his knees, digging in with his fingers and swallowing against the lump in his throat.

“You alright love?” she asked, glancing up from the paper he had handed her. Normally Q would have bristled at being patronised, but right now he only offered a rather shaky smile.

“Yes. I'm fine, thank you.”

She familiarised herself with his details, asking a few questions about his family (“Mum, Dad, two siblings. No nieces and nephews”) and his work (“executive position, long hours”). She then asked how long he'd been trying to conceive.

“About four months now. We're quite newly bonded. My partner's twelve years my senior. I've had two heats with him, and...well, I'm not pregnant. Not for lack of trying I assure you. He's really putting his back into it.”

Q cracked a nervous smile, and Dr Logan answered with one of her own.

“Have you ever had symptoms that made you think you were pregnant? Nausea? Swelling of the chest?”

“No, nothing like that.” At least he'd been spared the fake symptoms.

She asked if he had eaten that day and after Q told her that he hadn't, she nodded.

“Good. I'll write you a lab order; you can drop by the lab right after this appointment. It's just down the hall. Just to see if there's a hormonal imbalance or something else that could explain why you're having trouble conceiving; I'll ring you about the results later.”

Dr Logan proceeded to ask a barrage of questions about his bodily functions and sex life, his levels of exercise, his diet, his working hours, his bond to his mate, and the regularity and length of his heats. Q answered dutifully, not bothering to conceal that prior to his bonding he had been an absolute workaholic who practically lived at the workplace.

“I've been much better about it recently,” he said. “And my partner usually makes sure I get a proper meal at the end of the day. Unless he happens to be out of the country.”

“Your partner travels a lot?” she asked, and even though her tone was non-judgmental, Q couldn't help getting on the defensive.

“Not when my heat is due. We've done everything correctly,” he said. “We haven't missed a single heat. We've never had any problems with knotting, and James usually has another orgasm afterwards. We also have sex regularly outside of my heats, even if we don't knot then. I simply can't understand why I'm not with a pup yet.”

“Sometimes there are cases where we simply cannot determine the reason,” Dr Logan said, looking up from her notepad. “It could come down to something as trivial as blood types or something in the genetic makeup that makes the partners incompatible in this area. It could also be something that resolves itself with time, but I understand you don't want to wait.”

“I find it hard to believe we would be incompatible,” Q said. “He is in excellent health, as am I. We are compatible in bed and outside of it. He finds my pheromones irresistible and I, his. Besides, his sperm count is in the upper percentiles. It must be me. Something is wrong with me.”

Dr Logan paused her notetaking. “You said your partner is a bit older than you? There can be quite a significant drop in sperm count in later years. Do you know when he was last tested?”

Q frowned, trying to remember what he'd read in Bond's file. “I'm not sure, but I can check. A few years, maybe.”

“I think it would be a good idea to check that, and bring him in next time, as well, if he's willing,” she suggested. “We can shoot down possible problems easier when both partners are involved in the process, and start finding solutions. Alright, Daniel, our time today is up. I'll ring you about your bloodwork results as we agreed.”

They agreed that Q would call her after discussing things with Bond, and if he agreed to accompany him they would book a couple's appointment next and run some tests on him as well. Q couldn't help a wry smile. Bond absolutely detested doctors. He would just have to come up with the proper motivation.

On his way back to HQ, he accessed Bond's medical file. There had been a full medical evaluation at the beginning of his career as a double-oh agent eight years ago; they seemed to have taken every test under the sun to assess his physical state and competence. His sperm count was perfectly normal for a man his age, and there were no anomalies among the other test results, either. He had been at his physical peak, and even though Q admitted to some bias it seemed little had changed over the years.

Q delved deeper into Bond's post-mission files. Gunshot wounds, broken bones, torn ligaments, the usual fare. He felt a tingle down his spine when he reached the files from Bond's psych evaluations. He'd had an increased number of appointments around Vesper Lynd's death, which in itself wasn't surprising. There were a few entries referring to the institution where Bond had been recuperating after the Montenegro mission had gone tits up.

Q frowned and re-read those entries. Bond had been extremely tight-lipped about it, and made light of whatever had happened, saying that Le Chiffre had scratched his balls for him. Q spied the word 'torture' somewhere in the text and goosebumps broke out all over his body, leaving him chilled.

It didn't take him long to break into the patient records of the institution that had held both Bond and Vesper Lynd, reading with increasing horror. Bond had experienced severe blunt trauma to his testicles at the hands of Le Chiffre. The doctors had been unsure whether he would retain the sexual function of his genitals, or if the damage was too severe.

Bond didn't enjoy having his balls touched and Q respected that, only touching him in other places and not asking questions Bond didn't want to answer. He had always known that Bond had undergone torture, several times, but he hadn't known the details because Bond never spoke of it. Now, in possession of this new knowledge, Q had a million questions he wanted to ask and things he needed to know.

Q pocketed his mobile as they reached HQ, his fingers still trembling, and straightened his back. Here he was Quartermaster, and whatever had happened with Bond had to wait.

~

Q wished there was an invisibility cloak that he could don at a whim when Jack from Accounting rushed into the same lift with him on his way back to the branch. They had only seen each other in passing since their aborted attempt at dating, and neither had sought the other out. Q had been too embarrassed at being ditched for a younger, more accommodating Omega, and Jack – well. God knew what he thought.

Q gave him a cordial nod.

“Jack,” he said in acknowledgement. He suppressed the urge to fidget as Jack took him in, doing a double-take and staring way too long at Q's arse.

“Why, hello, Q,” he said. “You're looking good.”

Q coughed as he was forced to partake in polite cheek bussing, not liking the way Jack's aftershave smelled, or the way his hand lingered on the small of his back. He was quite aware that his general appearance had improved by leaps and bounds recently, thanks to his new, healthier diet (which simply meant that he actually ate regularly) and increased downtime. He'd also been getting regular (and excellent) sex for some months now, and he supposed Bond's taste in dress had rubbed off on him a little.

(In fact, Bond had taken a look at his wardrobe, rolled his eyes at the sight of endless rows of jumpers, and ordered him a bevy of dress-shirts and complementing slacks. Q had grumbled, but he had to admit he did look more like the branch head that he was. Sometimes he wore some atrocious old thing to work just to be contrary.)

“Who's the lucky bloke, then?” Jack asked, his voice dripping with curiosity – and something more? He still had yet to remove his hand.

Q threw a desperate glance at the lift door, willing it to open. The descent to the bunker floor was infuriatingly long.

He thought about trying to evade the question, but finally judged it a moot point; he and Bond lived together, they had bonded, and they – or at least Bond – hadn't done much in the way of keeping their relationship a secret. By now, at least half of MI6 had to be in the know. Besides, there was a special kind of satisfaction in divulging that he was bonded to the most feared agent of the Secret Intelligence Service, especially after having been judged as less than adequate by someone far below Bond's class.

“Double-oh-Seven, if you must know,” he said simply, allowing himself a small smile as Jack's jaw dropped. It also gave him the opportunity to step away from the other man and break off the unwanted contact.

“James Bond?”

“That is his name, yes,” Q said, sighing internally in relief as the lift stopped at his floor with a loud ding and the door opened to allow him out. To his irritation, Jack followed him.

“Was there something you wanted?” Q asked, stopping. Jack very nearly ran into him and had to step aside to avoid a collision. It was amusing to watch him flail, a welcome change to the assertive and dominant act he’d always put on around him.

“No, I just thought, why not have a little chat,” Jack said, still a bit wide-eyed.

“In all honesty, I don't think we have much to chat about,” Q said, injecting some kindness into his tone. “Oh, congratulations on your baby. I heard through the grapevine.”

Jack seemed to regain some of his footing. “Thank you. Much appreciated, Q. Are you...?”

“We're trying,” Q said, and witnessed Jack's eyes dropping down to his stomach. And just out of spite, he added, “Vigorously.”

“If you need any help,” Jack said, letting the sentence trail off with a look on his face that was almost an open leer. Q narrowed his eyes.

“Are you asking me if we need help in getting me pregnant?” Q asked. “Just to be sure.”

Jack suddenly seemed to realise that he was talking to the bonded mate of the deadliest agent of MI6 and started to backpedal.

“No! No. Nothing of the sort. Good god, Q. I wouldn't dream of it.” He added an unconvincing little chuckle for good measure.

“Then kindly please stop following me around and ogling my arse,” Q said. “My regards to your mate and pup.”

Jack remained where he stood as Q walked off briskly, marvelling to himself how he'd ever wasted time going on dates with the idiot, and much less spent regretting the fact that it hadn't gone any further. Yes, Bond could do innuendo as much as anyone else, but he wasn't crass enough to walk around propositioning other people's bonded mates.

Besides, Bond was actually fit, and didn't come equipped with an attitude from the Stone Age.

When he appeared in the branch, things were in full swing already; R was darting back and forth between workstations and, upon sighting Q, immediately signalled him over.

“There's a hack going on,” he said. Q dropped his satchel where he stood and shrugged off his coat, not caring where it landed, and hurried to his workstation. “The honeypot lured them in.”

“I'm going to fuck them over so hard,” Q said gleefully, rubbing his hands together. “I've been waiting for this for months!”

“We all have, sir,” Jeremy said from the back. Q stretched his back and rolled his hips in preparation, ready to inflict some serious damage on their attacker.

~

Bond waltzed in hours later looking flushed after a recent workout, still in standard MI6 exercising gear, and took in his bonded mate all but banging on his keyboard, hair standing on end. He came to stand a few steps behind Q with his hands in his pockets and peered at the monitor, but he couldn't make out what was happening. Q was typing faster than ever, muttering swear words and threats under his breath.

“Just a regular day at the office, then?” Bond asked lightly, smirking as Q muttered another 'fuck'. “I'll take that as a yes.”

“I'm tracking these arseholes who have been attacking us since last summer,” Q bit out. “I know this sounds weird, but this has Silva written all over it. Are you quite sure you offed him, Bond?”

The question was a rhetorical one; he knew Silva had been dead and buried for a year now. But something still remained...

“Do you need me to shoot someone?” Bond asked mildly, but Q knew him well enough by now to hear the tension in his voice.

Q gave him a tight-lipped grin. “Patience, Bond. I'll provide you with a list of names and locations soon enough.”

He was finally able to locate and pinpoint the IP address to rural Lithuania after playing cat and mouse with the hacker all over the globe. The honeypot had worked as intended, shedding light over weaknesses in the system; Q immediately relegated Linda and Jeremy to re-designing duties while he launched an attack of his own on their hacker's system. He fought back admirably, but was no match for a Q who was riled up and backed by his staff. He was soon deep in their system.

“I think I need to call M to come down,” Q said finally, glancing at Bond before returning his attention back to his monitor.

Bond stepped closer, his palm a warm weight on Q’s back. Q had to fight the urge to curl his back like a cat in pleasure. Bond didn't mean to distract but to ground, and Q noticed that it had quite the calming effect on him. Not something he would have associated with James Bond, before.

Bond took a sniff of him, his eyes snapping to Q's face. Q slowed down his typing when he sensed the shift in Bond's mood.

“Who did you meet today? There's someone's scent on you.”

Q's first thought was Dr. Logan, but then he remembered Jack and made a face. Jack and his stupid Alpha scent. “No one of importance. This git from accounting I went on a couple of dates with last spring.”

“Who is still on intimate enough terms with you to touch you?” Bond's voice was bland, but Q wasn't fooled. He spared a glance around them. R valiantly pretended he wasn't listening.

“We met in the lift, exchanged polite cheek bussing, I told him off for ogling my arse,” Q said. “I told him I'm bonded and we're vigorously trying for a pup.”

Bond looked slightly appeased, but nonetheless leaned in to rub his own cheek against Q's. R, whose work station was located next to Q's, continued to politely pretend that nothing was happening.

“Well, as long as you made that clear.”

Q cleared his throat and returned to his work. Inside, he couldn't help feeling a little overwhelmed that Bond would be jealous over him.

By the time M made it down to the bunker, Q had a photo and a name. Hasan Balkus. The name was unfamiliar to M and Q both, but rang a bell with Bond, who muttered a curse.

“Silva's associate,” he said. “I tracked his network after his death. This man was thought deceased.”

“This is the man who’s been hacking us,” Q said. Bond stared at the face on the screen, committing it to memory. “What's more, he's linked to Mr. White, which further suggests a link to Quantum.”

“We thought Silva worked alone,” M said. “That's what all our intel said.”

“And yet it appears that he didn't,” Q said, pulling up bank account details that suggested their mysterious hacker had transferred funds to Silva. “There seems to have been an organised financial support system behind him and his operations.”

Bond didn't ask him if he was sure; he knew Q wouldn't say anything unless he'd verified and re-verified his findings. He stared at Q's screen, face blank.

Mallory cursed. “This man, Balkus, needs to be taken out. But not before he has given us a few other names, Bond. We need to get to the bottom of this. If the last dregs of Quantum still exist...”

He didn't have to finish his sentence.

“My sentiments exactly,” Bond said. Heshared a look with Q that promised death and destruction to the enemies of England.

“Seven pm tonight,” M said, cutting a decisive look at Q, who nodded. “Drop by my office for your mission details.”

Bond turned to stare at the photograph again; Q wondered briefly if he was thinking about Vesper. The disappearance of Mr White had been weighing on him for some time – he was, to their knowledge, the last living link to the organization. The last piece to the puzzle.

Instead of asking if Bond would like to talk about it, he said: “James, after you get back, I need to talk to you about something.”

Bond turned to look at him. “Why not now?”

“Because it's private,” Q said, “and not about work. Besides, I need to start overseeing the mission prep here. To have your equipment ready.”

“I'd rather hear it now, Daniel.”

His given name gave him pause. Q gave him an assessing look and decided that it couldn't hurt. “Alright. In my office then, please.” He waited until Bond had closed the door after himself before he spoke. “I had a doctor's appointment earlier today. At a fertility clinic.”

Bond's brows rose. “Fertility clinic? Why?”

“Do you really need to ask why?” Q asked. “James. I don't want to keep waiting and wishing for something to happen. I want to know if there's something wrong and if we can fix it.”

Bond took this in, face serious. “Fair enough. What did the doctor say?”

“She said she needed to see my bloodwork and asked about my heats and the sex and so on.” Q hesitated. He was heading into uncharted territory and could only hope he wouldn't misstep too badly. “She also asked questions about you.”

Bond smirked. “I hope you didn't brag too much.”

Q forced a smile, knowing that it wouldn't fool Bond for a second. “Not too horribly. She asked about your history and...well, she asked if you'd be willing to accompany me on my next appointment. She would like to run some tests on you, too.”

Bond was looking at him oddly. “And you were worried I wouldn't want to go? Daniel, I'm not exactly afraid of needles. I get bloodwork done all the time.”

“I'm afraid it's not just about bloodwork. I broke into your medical file,” Q said. Bond acknowledged this with a hum; it was nothing new. “I couldn't help noticing you were taken to a private clinic to recover after Montenegro.”

Bond's face was carefully blank. Q hurried to continue.

“I hacked into their patient files, too. I read about...what happened in Montenegro.” He saw Bond tense, but had to continue now that he'd started talking. “I don't mean Vesper Lynd.” Shit.

Silence fell. Bond stared at him, face forbidding. “What do you mean, then?”

“I meant with Le Chiffre. What he did to you.” Q licked his lips and swallowed. “He tortured you.”

“I know. I was there.”

“I'm sorry. I know this is difficult.”

“How? How do you know this is difficult? Have you ever been tortured? Have you ever had your balls smashed to pulp?”

Bond's voice was biting. His scent was sharp and tangy; Bond was close to terminating the discussion and was looking for any reason – or excuse – to do so. Q tried to keep the conversation factual, and not get mired in the emotional aspect of it right now; they didn't have the time.

“I know you had to have been treated intensively for the injuries. Do you know if they did any further tests? I couldn't find anything else.”

Bond let out a hollow laugh. “If you couldn't find anything I'm sure it means they didn't.”

“James, you could have scarring down there.” Q spoke as gently as he could, but he could see Bond withdrawing.

“Nothing's wrong,” Bond said. “Nothing's wrong with me. Fuck, Q.”

Q watched him go, and cursed himself a fool.

~

Bond was getting drunk.

That is, drunk to the casual observer; Q knew that the amount of whiskey Bond had drunk wasn't enough to make him even tipsy.

Bond downed the remainder of his drink in one go just as a slim, furtive-looking, middle-aged man stepped into the pub. Balkus. He hadn't noticed Bond and didn't even take a look around. Bond ordered another drink, and waited.

He'd chased their hacker down from Lithuania, across the border, to a dingy little town not far from Jelgava, Latvia's third largest city. Bond had made his way to the town's only pub, dressed down in a pair of dirty jeans and a flannel shirt with a leather jacket thrown on top. He looked impossibly good, but Q didn't think it wise to comment on his looks. Bond should have perhaps appeared relaxed and casual, but his posture was tense and watchful, at least he was to Q, who was familiar with his body language.

Q had helped track Balkus down since Riga, where he had had a short brawl with Bond and done his disappearing act after knocking Bond out long enough to make his escape. Q had told Bond not to pursue because he would be tracking Balkus's drive down south, where they calculated he would reveal perhaps another associate. They needed to bring the man in for questioning to unearth the last vestiges of Quantum and preferably Mr White, who hadn't made even a blip in their radar for a year and a half. M didn't want to ruin things by rushing unduly.

They had maintained their professionalism on the comms. Bond was perhaps a bit curter in his replies than usual, but Q put it out of his mind for the time being, focused on seeing the mission to a successful end. He was upset with himself though, for not insisting that they discuss their private matters until after the mission. Bond needed no distractions in the field.

So far Bond been hit on by quite a few interested Omegas; Q smiled despite himself as he listened to his mate rebuffing their advances in fluent Latvian. The charming bastard. One of the hopeful lot had ceased flirting but remained in Bond's company, discussing this and that and their plans for the weekend. Bond's cover was a simple; he was a businessman in town to meet with an associate, staying at the only motel in the village. He told them he had a bonded mate and pups at home, and didn't want to deal with his mate's jealousy when coming home and having someone else’s scent on him.

He had somehow managed to convey all that, and still sound flirtatious enough to tempt the Omega to stay.

“Is your mate the jealous type?” the Omega teased, biting his lip.

“Very. I prefer all my bits intact.”

Their quarry was having a pint by himself in one of the corner booths, and Q advised Bond to wait until he was leaving, and then follow. There were no CCTV cameras that he could use, but they had live feed from Bond's contact lenses – Q's newest prototype. Bond kept throwing furtive looks at Balkus, but the man was drinking alone, and didn't appear to expecting company. All the better.

Bond excused himself to the toilet. As he washed his hands, he looked at himself in the mirror and spoke to Q via the com link. It was odd, looking at his monitor and finding Bond staring straight at him.

“Everything alright at Six?”

“Of course,” Q immediately said. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Which of course wasn't saying a lot.

“Feel free to chatter my ear off. It's not like there's anything more interesting going on.”

“Oh, I don't know. That young Omega wasn't exactly an eyesore.”

He had been downright beautiful, in fact, in all the ways that Q knew usually drew Bond's eye, with an exotic allure. Maybe if Q wasn't in his ear Bond would have gone for it, he thought, and then wanted to kick himself for getting jealous for something that hadn't even happened. He was glad when Bond didn't reply, because he'd rather not get into his insecurities right now. Not only would it be grossly unprofessional, but also a complete waste of breath.

“Any back-up team?”

“Organising one right now.” He inwardly cursed Mallory for deciding that Bond would be going alone to catch Balkus; a quick in-and-out job, no back-up team needed. Only they hadn't expected him to make a run for it, and it was entirely possible now that Bond would have to engage with a larger number of hostiles. Q didn't intend to leave him stranded. “Let us hope it's not needed.”

Bond snorted. “The day I can't pull off a simple extraction is the day Mallory should just sack me.”

“Doesn't hurt to be prepared, Bond.”

Bond dried his hands, tossing the paper towel in the general direction of the overflowing bin, and went back to the bar. He had just finished his drink when the mark got up and left the pub. Bond got up to follow him, sparing no glance to the young Omega who was still sitting at the table.

“I'm sorry,” the Omega said, sounding like he meant it. Q froze, hackles raised, a mug of tea raised to his lips.

“What for?” Bond asked, and even Q could tell that he was slurring a bit more now. “What have you done?”

“I'm sorry, I had to,” the Omega repeated. He took a step forward to catch Bond when he stumbled and fell; the live feed went dark. Q's mug dropped, splashing hot tea on the floor and over his shoes. He never noticed.

~

They'd removed his earwig at the earliest opportunity, much to Q's consternation. Bond still had his lenses on though, so even if they had no audio they would still have visuals, and that could make all the difference.

By the time Bond woke up and opened his eyes, someone had cleaned up the porcelain shards and mopped up the floor. Q had not moved from his workstation. In less than half an hour, he had hacked into military satellites in the general vicinity and contacted Felix Leiter, Bond's personal friend and contact in the CIA.

After a bit of hedging, Leiter had admitted there was a CIA operation going on in the area, and had promised that they would try and help with evac if only Q could suss out the location and the identities, or at least the number, of Bond's abductors.

The backup team was still a few hours away. Q cursed. He would have to rely on the Americans. He had already decided that the contact lenses would come with a tracker the next time he handed them out to an agent; it hadn't taken Bond's abductors long to dig out the microchip planted in Bond's hip and destroy it.

Bond opened his eyes, and Q was suddenly face to face with Mr. White. The man looked older than in the photographs; he was thinner, and more haggard. Still dressed to the nines, though; a man after Bond's own heart. White also appeared slightly agitated and not at all happy to be faced with Bond. Had he thought he wouldn't have a run-in with Six again?

“Guess again,” Qmuttered.

He enabled the automated lip reading on his computer. Bond would know to keep the other man talking. They needed all the info they could get.

_Mr. Bond. What a dubious pleasure. You're quite persistent, aren't you? Why didn't you just stay in rainy old London?_

_You can't weed us out, Bond._

_Vesper Lynd was nothing. Neither was your precious M. Next it'll be that bonded mate of yours on the line. He's watching, isn't he? Your Quartermaster?_

Q bit his lip. Did they know about the contact lenses? Bond then said something that made Mr White's face tighten in anger, and he spat out his next words.

_Well, where is he? Where is your avenging angel? Crying over his loss, I would imagine._

“Come on, James, give me something,” Q muttered under his breath.

Almost as though he'd heard, Bond turned his head, which meant that he wasn't looking at Mr White's mouth, but Q had heard quite enough from him by now, anyway. The room Bond was held in had white walls and fluorescent lights up in the ceiling. There was a row of windows up in the wall that he was facing, and judging from the view, the room had to be partially underground.

There was one man standing behind his shoulder, heavily armed, and another one standing by the door behind Mr White, hands clasped together. Bond then turned his head the other way; Q saw a wall full of surveillance equipment and several screens, with one man manning them. Balkus was standing next to Mr White, his eyes flickering nervously in Bond's direction. Q hoped the man didn't carry a weapon; he looked exactly the kind of man who would shoot at the slightest provocation.

Bond returned his gaze to Mr White, who was now talking into a mobile phone. Q could have smack himself. Mobile phone – Bond's phone! Even if they'd discarded it, he could still use it as a point of reference to determine where Bond could be held. It hadn't been longer than thirty minutes, and unless they'd taken an aeroplane, they couldn't have gone very far from Jelgava.

Bond's phone was still trackable, and a minute later Q had a rough estimate of the area where Bond was likely to be contained. He cross-referenced all the information they had of Silva, Greene Planet and Mr White himself for anything that could lead them in the right direction.

“Come on,” he muttered, pushing his glasses up, taking in what was happening on his screen. Mr White was still talking to someone on his mobile phone. Q hoped he wouldn't end the call and decide to do away with Bond before he even had anything he could use.

Finally his search yielded a result: Greene Planet had had a warehouse in Ozolnieki, a smallish town that was inside Q's estimated area. Q immediately contacted Leiter and gave him the address, citing it as a possible retrieval point. There were five people in the room with Bond, and there were likely to be more in the premises, but Q had faith in Leiter's people. Or, he tried to. It would have been better if they were their people with comms open to the branch, but it was better than nothing; it had to be. Their team wouldn't arrive on the scene in time.

The satellite feed he'd pulled up showed several pickup trucks parked in the warehouse's yard, and a black SUV pulled up as he was watching. A small group of men got out, armed to the teeth. By now, Q was snapping at Leiter, needing to know if these men were hostile, or the CIA.

He nearly bit through his tongue when Bond suddenly headbutted the nearest man who moved to grab him, throwing his chair sideways. Another one of Mr White's men rushed over and kicked Bond in the stomach, hard. The feed went black for a moment, during which Q's fingers were flying over his keyboard. He snapped orders at Leiter, telling him to hurry the fuck up while Bond was still alive, because shit had just hit the fan big time.

How in the hell had everything gone pear-shaped in such a short time?

The live feed came back on unexpectedly. Bond had broken free of his restraints and was walking on his own, if a bit unsteadily. The room was empty now, apart from him, and Bond was looking at the screens, aware now that there were more people on the scene. He was carrying a gun (not his issued Walther, to Q's disappointment), which he used to shoot a man just as he appeared in the doorway. Bond's own hand passed his field of vision quickly and Q saw a flash of red.

Leiter confirmed that his men were still on their way. Q gnawed on his bottom lip as several people spilled out of the warehouse and a firefight broke out. An unknown shooter was mowing down Mr White's men from a hidden location – it wasn't Bond, who was emerging from the bowels of the building. He shot another man in the corridor outside the room where he'd been held, and wiped at his eyes again.

The mystery shooter had an almost frightening accuracy, taking men down with single shots. Q wanted to know what gun he was using.

“Who the fuck are you?” Q asked, utterly vexed, trying to improve the satellite's feed to get a better look at their vehicle, but there was very little he could do about the quality. The only consolation was that whoever the shooter was, he was currently working in Bond's favour.

That didn't mean Q trusted him.

Mr White came out of the building with another man in tow, managing to avoid the mysterious shooter; they got inside one of the pickup trucks, and vacated the premises in a cloud of dust.

“R, follow,” Q ordered, and his second-in-command immediately started working on another satellite.

Bond finally made it out of the warehouse, crouching low, but the gunfire had already stopped. Balkus was among the dead, his body a sorry heap on the gravel; Bond knelt down next to the body to get a proper look at his face. Q's thoughts were racing a mile a minute. Someone had helped Bond make his escape – but to what purpose? Unless the mystery shooter was a stray CIA agent – and according to Leiter it wasn't, and couldn't have been – it all made very little sense. Q knew they weren't one of theirs. So who the hell were they?

Bond sprinted to one of the vehicles, wasting very little time in getting the car running. He was limping badly, and cradling one arm, and Q's mouth tightened in combined sympathy and anger. Then the satellite feed went out, and he was running on Bond's visuals alone. The terrain was very rough, and Q noted with some concern that Bond was driving quite erratically; more so than usual, in any case.

Meanwhile, R did his best to follow Mr White's getaway car to Riga, where he disappeared in the bustle of the airport.

Bond ran into the CIA operatives half an hour or so later, who thankfully didn't take him for a Quantum member or a hostile. Q waited to hear from Leiter. The branch had all but quieted down while they waited with their boss.

Finally, Leiter's voice sounded over the comms. “We've got Bond. Can you arrange for immediate medical evac?”

Q came back online, crisp as ever, his heart rate through the roof. “Consider it done.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to @besanii for excellent beta. <3
> 
> Also thank you to anyone who made it this far. xx

VIII

 

They flew Bond back to London just six hours later.

 

He didn't even manage a token resistance when he was wheeled straight to Medical upon entering HQ. Q followed the gurney and did his best not to hover or to go into hysterics at the sight of his mate strapped in, bleeding from his face and deathly pale. Bond was in bad shape and was slightly delirious. He kept calling out for people who weren't there: for his parents, for M – the old M, Q was sure.

 

The worst was in his stomach; he'd been kicked repeatedly when he was down, and the doctors feared a rupture in his liver. He was also bleeding significantly into his abdominal cavity. They whisked him into one of the operating rooms before Q could do anything more than run his hand through Bond's hair.

 

There was nothing he could do but wait, but that didn't mean he had to be idle. His branch descended into the few leads they had like birds of prey. Now that that they knew Mr White was still active, it became imperative that they locate and neutralise him. R checked all the security camera footage from Riga International Airport, all too aware that if Mr White managed to go underground again the odds for finding him wouldn't be in their favour.

 

“We need to find, and finish Quantum,” Q told R, who nodded.

 

Q was almost swaying where he stood. He was running on Earl Grey again, and the occasional sandwich he found at his elbow. (He made a mental note to thank Eve later, for everything.)

 

The CIA had taken care of the clean-up on site and Q was itching to get his hands on their report. According to Leiter, there had been no sign of the third party shooters; they had all but vanished into thin air. True, they had helped Bond out, but Q didn't trust the unknown. He didn't like it when there were players in the field he didn't know, that he hadn't vetted himself.

 

Not that he was congratulating himself, either. He'd equipped Bond, but hadn't been able to help when things went pear-shaped. He knew Bond didn't hold it against him, but Q was determined he would never again be so helpless.

 

Something about it sounded vaguely familiar, and soon it clicked; Turkey. Someone had wanted Bond out of the way then, but had left him unharmed. Now he'd been rescued from torture and almost certain death. Rather than gratitude, Q felt cold. This felt too personal for his liking, considering Mr White had also known Bond had a bonded mate, and that the aforementioned mate was the Quartermaster of MI6.

 

Q sent in their own team to Ozolnieki to go through the surveillance tapes and bring all the remaining equipment back to Six.

 

_I'll be damned if I don't get to the bottom of this. This is about James. And if it's about James, it's about all of us. Especially me._

 

His phone rang some hours later. The operation was over, and Bond had been taken to the recovery room. The nurse on the phone said it would likely take an hour or two for Bond to wake up, but his words fell on deaf ears. Q was already on his way, leaving the branch to the capable hands of his second in command.

 

Seeing Bond lying on a hospital bed in a patient gown with an IV attached to his hand, face white and drawn, felt many kinds of wrong. Q was used to Bond coming back home a little banged up, slightly singed, but with the swagger and the smirk firmly in place. Now his chest was rising and falling peacefully; the utter stillness, the forced calm, felt unnatural. His eyelashes flickered very minutely, but Q knew he wasn’t dreaming.

 

Now... he watched the man, and he didn't see Bond. He only saw James.

 

_I thought I needed you to say it. Turns out, I don't. I needed to face my own feelings. And... I love you. For all you are. For all you'll ever be._

 

He felt slightly self-conscious wrapping Bond's hand in his own and bussing the bruised knuckles, but it felt right. Bond's scent was indistinct among the sterile smells of the medical ward, but Q's wasn't, and he wanted Bond to have the comfort of his scent when he woke. He rubbed Bond's lax hand against his face, nuzzling into his palm, and dragged his unresponsive fingers through his own hair.

 

“I need you to wake up.” His whisper sounded loud in the unnatural silence. “And then I’m going to give you a proper bollocking for scaring me so badly.”

 

_Not any worse than I'm giving myself._

 

He had, of course, known this day was coming. A mission where everything would go wrong and render him helpless, and James would come back home in pieces – or not at all. He had tried to fool himself into thinking that he would survive James's eventual demise; mourn, certainly, but move on after a period of grieving and get on with his life. He couldn't bear the thought that someday he would be cradling the hand of his dead mate.

 

He hadn't expected to find himself so desolate. Desolate and _vengeful_.

 

One of the nurses, the one who had called him – an Omega in his thirties – came inside the room to check on Bond. He glanced at their joined hands and gave Q an encouraging smile.

 

“Are you Daniel, by any chance?” he asked. Q started, interrupted from his musings.

 

“Why?” Q asked, his eyes studying the nurse's, searching for ulterior motives. He didn’t go around advertising his given name, after all, even inside the Office; it was classified information, like everything else about the executives of MI6.

 

“Um, well, he kept calling for Daniel,” the nurse stammered. “Before he was put under. I thought it would be his mate.”

 

Q cracked a tired smile. “Well, between ourselves, yes I am.”

 

The rational part of Q's mind knew that Bond wasn't in danger here in the bowels of Six, but the more primitive, instinctual part of him demanded he stay at Bond's side and guard his rest, keep a close watch on his bonded mate. He kept Bond's hand cradled in his, taking in his Alpha's face. Bond looked haggard and ill, but he was alive. Alive. Not as good as new, not indestructible. But his.

 

He looked up when someone knocked, and his brows rose when Christie stepped in

 

“Double-oh Four?” What was she doing here? “Checking up on me?”

 

Must have been Eve.

 

She rolled her eyes. “Anne,” she said. Q nodded. “Actually, checking up on _him_. Word travels fast. Tough little bugger, isn't he?”

 

Q snorted despite himself, although the humour was short-lived. Her left hand was in a sling, and she was flexing her fingers slightly – subconsciously, Q judged, from the way her eyes scanned Bond's prone body. Maybe she imagined herself lying there, Eve at her bedside.

 

“How do you keep going?” he asked, surprising himself. She shot him a look.

 

“What else could we do?” Christie asked. “This is what we do. We get up. We get back in shape. And we serve the country.”

 

“No matter what the personal cost?” He eyed her left hand. Her gaze followed his. This time the flex was more deliberate.

 

“The personal cost makes it worthwhile,” she said. “This is who I am. What I chose. Same for him. Same for you, too, I would imagine?”

 

Q sucked his lips in, returning thoughtful eyes to Bond. He didn't notice when she left.

 

~

 

Work helped to distract him – to a degree.

 

He was working again on the improvement of the contact lenses, and the tracker chip was another thing that needed to be re-imagined. The thing was so eighties it gave him a headache. Not only that, it was too easily located and removed; they needed something smaller and more inconspicuous. Something that couldn't be detected or disabled or removed. Nano-technology?

 

Back to the labs it was. (Q loved it.)

 

Bond was a horrible patient, to no one’s surprise. Q went down to the infirmary just to give the nurses a respite; he offered apologetic looks and bribed them with expensive boxes of chocolate to please not strangle his mate or knock him out. Bond looked grumpy and ready to leave, and he told Q so. Q told him to rethink his stance, because he had the power to put the entire infirmary into permanent lock down.

 

“Here, darling,” Q said, tossing him a tiny teddy bear (from Eve) and a chocolate bar.

 

Bond caught the bear and the sweet and made a face. “In case you haven't noticed, Q, I'm not five. You don't happen to have a bottle of scotch in your desk drawer?”

 

“You ungrateful little shit.” Q went and gave him a kiss, smiling when Bond pulled him closer, breathing in his scent. “Please stop menacing these people? They're taking care of you. For me.”

 

It might have come out a bit soppier than intended, but Q decided he didn't mind after seeing the corners of Bond's eyes crinkle in an approximation of a smile. He hadn't been there when Bond woke up, but Bond had shrugged him off when he tried to apologise.

 

“I'm not the only one who needs you,” he'd said. “And what was I going to do, escape? I'm afraid they'll have me in their clutches for a while yet.”

 

Two days later, Bond was allowed to check out with instructions to take it very easy for the next couple of weeks. Bond listened to the doctor's instructions with half an ear, preferring to nuzzle against Q. He had read about it; injured Alphas often needed to reaffirm their bond with their mate through increased intimacy. Q tried to swat him away while he conversed with the doctor, but eventually accepted the fact that he would have to practically wear his Alpha as an accessory.

 

They learned that the drug Bond had been given at the pub was gamma-hydroxybutyrate; it had been meant to knock him out until he'd been transferred to the warehouse. Q was relieved it was nothing with more sinister after effects.

 

Bond couldn't use crutches thanks to the new stitches, so Q helped him into a wheelchair and pushed him out of the building. Bond heaved a sigh of relief once they were inside the taxi and pulled out from the kerb into the traffic.

 

“If I see that place ever again it will be entirely too soon.”

 

“You mean Six?” Q asked, deadpan. Bond snorted.

 

They held hands during the short drive to the flat; it was mid-morning and the traffic was light. Q's thumb kept tracing the back of Bond's hand, one part of him that was still relatively unscarred. He noticed Bond looking down at their joined hands and smiled. It was such an innocent gesture, but it carried so much weight.

 

Once inside their home, Bond took a look around. Nothing had changed, and yet. Q felt it too. Without them (without James) their home was just another flat.

 

“Have you been in since I came back?” Bond asked, humour lurking in his tired eyes. It was quite pointless to deny that he hadn't.

 

“Too much going on,” Q said. “Also, there's a perfectly good couch in the break room.”

 

They kissed unhurriedly, mindful of the fresh stitches and the bandages wrapped around Bond's middle. Bond's fingers were tugging at his hair with less finesse than usual, and Q relished the slight burn, sighing against Bond's mouth, surprised to find that he was getting turned on. He hadn't expected to, not so soon after Bond's near-brush with death. (He hoped he wouldn't go into heat; there was no way he and Bond could have a successful heat with Bond incapacitated, and the thought of using toys was depressing and bordering on repulsive. He hoped his body would save him the humiliation.)

 

Bond pulled back reluctantly, looking pale. “I think I'd better sit down for a minute.”

 

Q helped Bond get comfortable on the leather couch and his knee elevated. He also brought him a drink without being asked – never mind the surgeon's words – and a blanket. He knew he was hovering; it was that damned Omega instinct again.

 

Bond must have noticed, because he smirked as he accepted the tumbler. “Relax, Q,” he said. “I'm alive. And on the mend.”

 

“Not thanks to me,” Q said. “James. I... I don't know.”

 

“Out with it, Daniel,” Bond said. Q looked up quickly at the use of his given name.

 

“I let you down,” Q said. “For all my boasts of being the cleverest person I know, there was not a single thing that I could do to help when they took you. Leiter's men would have come in too late. I was stupid to send you in alone without proper backup. Stupid!”

 

“That wasn't your call, it was Mallory's,” Bond said dismissively. “I was inexcusably careless. To fall for a date rape drug. It's the oldest trick in the book.”

 

Q tried to smile, aware that it must look as forced as it felt. “I should've warned you about pretty Omegas and their drinks.”

 

“How very remiss of you, Quartermaster,” Bond said drolly. He brought his hand to Q's face, cradling his jaw which was sporting a bit of scruff, and met his eyes squarely. “You didn't let me down. You found me, didn't you?”

 

Q couldn't help a little sniffle. “You shouldn't be the one comforting me. Look at you. You almost died.”

 

Bond made a rude noise. It reassured Q more than any platitude. “Almost isn't quite good enough. They'll have to try harder than that.”

 

Q allowed himself the comfort of the kiss. Bond tasted like gunfire and tobacco, and it was so lovely to just let go and allow his Alpha to take command, if only for a second. Bond tried to manoeuvre them around, but had to break the kiss to let out a pained “oomph” and make a face.

 

“Oh shit,” Q said, alarmed. “Watch the bloody stitches! Medical will skin us both alive if you tear them.”

 

“For fuck's sake,” Bond said. “How am I supposed to fuck you if I can't even move?”

 

“I don't think we're supposed to fuck quite yet,” Q said dryly. He winced as Bond kicked at the cushions with his uninjured leg in frustration. “I don't like it any more than you do.”

 

“It's a young man's job,” Bond said suddenly. Q frowned,  shooting him a look from under his brows .

 

“It's your job, as long as you want it.”

 

Bond shrugged, neither refuting nor agreeing with the statement, finishing his drink and seemingly unaware of Q's scrutiny.

 

Q wasn't exactly overjoyed at the thought of sending Bond out in the field again (ever, to be honest). Death had come too close. Bond had said they needed to try harder to kill him, and that was the problem, wasn't it? They  _ were _ trying harder, and it was getting increasingly difficult for Six to keep pace with their adversaries. But. Bond was the best they had. They needed him to keep doing what he was best at, for England. Q's personal feelings didn't even enter the equation.

  
However, there was one instance where they did. Q was all too keenly aware that their discussion before Bond left to Lithuania had been cut short.

 

“I'm sorry, I need to bring this up again. I know the last time we talked it didn't exactly end on a good note,” Q said, slightly apprehensive. From Bond's face, he knew exactly what Q was referring to. “But I need to get back to Dr Logan. I do believe we need to test you again. Just to rule it out. I gave my bloodwork while you were in Lithuania and it all came out alright. I don't think it's me.”

 

_ And if it's you...we need to know. _

 

Bond didn't answer, but he got up from the couch with a grunt after a moment's silence, swaying a little as he got on his feet. Q wanted to lend a hand, but didn't quite dare. He winced as Bond limped to the bathroom and closed the door after himself.

 

_ Well, that went well _ , Q told himself, frozen in place.  _ Start harping on James as soon as he gets home and is recovering from his most recent bout of injuries. _ Q picked up Bond's forgotten tumbler and downed the whiskey, coughing as the liquor went down.  _ Why not bring up Vesper Lynd, again, just to make the most of it? _ That should suit them terribly well, having a little domestic on Bond's first night back home.

 

_ I know I'm not making this easy for you...and I'm not happy to keep prodding at something that's painful for you. But I need to know. Can you understand that? _

 

(It made him want to destroy anyone who had ever wanted to hurt Bond. Le Chiffre was dead, as was Silva, as was Dominic Greene, but there was no shortage of those who wanted to try and, clever or not, Q would rather burn the world down than let anyone else hurt his mate again. He was their best. Their best hope, their best knight, and Q would always be there for him, like an avenging angel, to keep an eye over his agent.)

 

He looked up when Bond came back. Bond stood in the bathroom doorway, but Q couldn’t make out his features in the glare of the light. He stood there for a moment, studying Q's face.

 

“You honestly think that's the reason why you're not pregnant yet.”

 

Q nodded.

 

“Not because we're mismatched.”

 

“I don't think we're mismatched,” Q said, eyes and tone firm. “I understand this is difficult. I do. But this could be something to look into, right? I don't mean right now, necessarily, but when you're feeling better.”

 

Bond chuckled, which surprised him. “I don't think I'm going to be feeling better any time soon,” he said. “Why the hell not. I know you want a pup. I want us to have one. What's one more test?”

 

Q blinked. He didn't ask if Bond was sure, or if he really meant it, nor offer any other platitudes. He simply got up from the floor and went to his mate, wrapping his arms around him in thanks.

 

_ The things you do for me...are no less than the things I'd do for you. But thank you, all the same _ .

 

~

 

Dr Logan was very discreet and matter-of-fact about her second patient. She didn't ask about his occupation, nor his working hours, and didn't even mention the gauze, splint and the limp. Bond was slightly wary about the background questions, but Q's hand in his helped reassure him. (Q marvelled to himself how much they resembled any normal couple. He wondered what Dr Logan would have said if she knew what they did for a living. She most likely wouldn't have batted an eyelid, he thought; she didn't seem like the kind of person to be skittish over something as _trivial_ as espionage and national security.)

 

“You mentioned blunt trauma to your testes,” Dr Logan said after they had covered Bond's background information. “How long ago was this?”

 

“Three years,” he said. “Give or take a few months.”

 

“Have you experienced any pain in your testes since?”

 

Bond glanced at Q, who squeezed his hand in support. “Not really, no. I haven't paid attention, to be honest.”

 

“Is it painful to be touched there?”

 

She was making notes. Bond was still wearing all of his clothes, and Q was almost dreading the moment where she would ask him to drop trou and let her feel him up. He wasn't sure he wouldn't clock her.

 

“I prefer not to be touched there,” Bond said, his jaw working before he suppressed the reaction. “By my partner, or myself.”

 

She examined him before their time was up. Q left the room to allow Bond some privacy, knowing Bond wouldn't want Q to see him in such a position. He leafed through a fashion magazine while he waited, absently noting that the winter coats they were advertising looked awfully good, and that the man modelling them bore a striking resemblance to himself.

 

Dr Logan asked him back in not five minutes later, telling Bond that he could drop in a sample at their lab anytime in the next couple of days. She would ring him about the results later.

 

“Well, that was approximately nine hundred times less painful than any doctor's appointment in recent memory,” Bond quipped as he got in the backseat of the company car. Q gripped his hand and smiled before leaning in for a heated kiss.

 

“When did you think of going in?” he asked.

 

“I could go and give a sample in just a few minutes if you help me out a bit,” Bond said suggestively, waggling his eyebrows. Q stole a look at his lap and noticed the bulge, and decided to play along.

 

“I guess I could go and spit it in a cup?”

 

He wanted to chortle at the fact that this passed as banter or sexy talk in their relationship. It did lighten the mood in any case, and that was quite welcome. Bond snorted.

 

“The mouth on you,” he said, bringing Q's hand to his lips for a brief buss. “Now let's get ourselves back to the HQ. I'm sure Mallory is screaming the house down by now.”

 

~

 

Q stared at the head of MI6 sitting behind his fancy desk, acutely aware of the Double-oh agent standing by his shoulder. They had both been summoned for mission debriefing (or _chewing out,_ as Bond had predicted). The only thing that surprised Q was that Mallory had allowed Bond to recuperate before raking him over the coals over the Lithuania mission.

 

Mallory hated it whenever they needed to call in the CIA. Q could understand that, but there was no way Q was losing an agent over something as _stupid_ as not enough backup, and since MI6 resources had been scarce, he'd had to think on his feet. (Besides, it had been Mallory's decision to send Bond in alone, a fact Q was willing to bring up if necessary. Judging by the look on Mallory's face, he remembered it all too well.)

 

“Allow me to recap. The hacker is dead, we have no leads whatsoever, Mr White is at large _again_ , and Double-oh-Seven is alive only because an unknown party not affiliated with either us or the Americans came in at an opportune moment?”

 

Mallory sounded like he wanted to beat someone's head in. Q understood the sentiment, but personally he thought Mallory could show a bit more consideration of the fact they'd almost lost Bond.

 

“I believe that sums it up, sir.” Q knew he was being droll, but M hadn't said anything he didn't already know. “Although there are leads Q Branch and Intel are both looking into, but that is still a work in progress. Nothing definite has shown up yet.”

 

There was a name, but. Q needed to verify and re-verify before bringing it up with Mallory. _Marco Sciarra._ It had come up one time too many to be a coincidence.

 

“Well that was a complete cock-up,” Mallory said with disgust. “And a waste of resources.”

 

“Not entirely, sir,” Bond said. “It means Q was right and there was a link between Silva and Quantum. They wouldn't have taken me unless we were getting close. Also, this third party clearly didn't want me dead. For now. Doesn't mean they're on our side. Doesn't mean they're entirely unknown. We simply need a new angle, or new leads, and that's what Q Branch and Intel do best.”

 

Q bit back a smile. Mallory glared at them both, but nodded to himself. It was clear he still wasn't pleased about the outcome, but as Bond had said, there was a silver lining to this whole mess, and Mallory was nothing if not tenacious. He also had England’s best interests at heart despite his prickly demeanour. He reminded Q so much of the old M that he had to smile.

 

“Someone wanted to keep you alive, Bond,” Mallory said, raising his brows. “To what purpose?”

 

Bond gave him a lopsided smirk. “We mean to find out. They may yet come to regret that.”

 

Mallory stared at him, lips tight. “See that they do, Bond.”

  
“With pleasure.”

 

~

 

Dr Logan rang Bond a week after he had dropped a sample at the laboratory. Bond, in turn, texted Q, who had been elbows-deep in a new prototype down in the lab for the last four hours. He stopped what he was doing and opened the message.

 

_Sperm count low. Need an ultrasound next._

 

Q paused, breathed in, and texted back: _Do you want me there?_

 

He waited for a reply, and was berating himself for asking, when his phone beeped again.

 

_Yes. Two hours._

 

They met outside Dr Logan's office building. Q, who was normally not very keen on public displays of affection, hugged his mate and nuzzled his nose into Bond's neck. Apprehension hung like a cloud around Bond, and Q needed to do something to comfort him. He was glad the ultrasound had been arranged so quickly; they didn't need any more time to fret. Q's mind was spinning in circles already.

 

Bond was asked take off his trousers and underwear, and wipe his scrotum with antiseptic wipes before getting on the table. Q helped him, mindful of the stitches, gazing worriedly at Bond when he winced at the strain. He looked very out of place, almost vulnerable, and Q couldn't help thinking that this was wrong. It shouldn't have been James. It shouldn't have been James subjected to these tests, like a reminder of what had been done to him, treated like something was wrong with him – something that was terribly intimate and directly linked to his masculinity.

 

What use was an Alpha who couldn't sire offspring?

 

The ultrasound technician was a pretty young Beta who introduced herself as Megan. She made no comment about Q holding Bond's hand while he was lying on the examination table, but instead explained to him what she was going to do, and how it was going to feel. Bond flinched at the cold gel she spread over his scrotum.

 

“You could warn a man,” he said, managing a smirk. Megan smiled at him.

 

“Sorry about that, Mr Bond,” she said. “This will only take a couple of minutes.”

 

Q marvelled at her astuteness, because Bond had said nothing that would reveal his discomfort. His hand, however, was squeezing Q's very tightly. This was a man who didn't like doctors on the best of days, and now he had no choice but to leave himself in their hands.

 

She moved the transducer over his testicles, her eyes trained on the screen, explaining to them which parts they were looking at. She studied the findings in silence for a moment, and then turned to Q and Bond.

  
“I'm afraid there seems to be some blockage.”

 

The ultrasound revealed scar tissue on both of his tubes, which meant that most of his sperm was blocked and never made it to the prostate gland, and thus to his semen. The damage was likely caused by Le Chiffre and his knotted rope, though Megan only said that direct trauma was often the underlying cause for conditions like these. Q was glad the man was already dead, because it saved Q the trouble of hunting him down and killing him.

 

Megan called in Dr Logan for a consultation while Bond put his pants and trousers back on. Q excused himself, wanting to lend Bond the privacy and to give himself a moment to calm down before facing Bond again. Bond came out of Dr Logan's office perhaps ten minutes later, looking quiet and collected. They shared a brief hug before Bond drove them home. If his driving was a bit more reckless than usual, Q made no comment.

 

He could tell something was brewing, and could only hope that Bond would talk to him and not drown his doubts in the bottle. As things were, they made it home quietly and Q put the kettle on, desperate for some semblance of normalcy. Bond's face was terrible to look at; Q wanted to postpone the discussion and act like they were any normal couple spending the night in. Bond cooked and they ate, quiet and preoccupied. Q was determined not to ask. He would let James talk when he was ready.

 

They were getting ready for bed when Bond finally spoke. He wasn't looking at Q, but somewhere to his right.

 

“I think I should let you go,” Bond said. “Find a proper mate. This is not fair to you.”

 

“James,” Q started to say, but Bond cut him off.

 

“I can't father your pups. I promised I wouldn't make you go without. So I won't. Find another mate.”

 

Q's lips were a thin line as he considered this, his fingers frozen at the hem of his t-shirt with indecision. If Bond was saying what he thought he was saying...it couldn't be. There had to be a way. If Dr Logan was offering no alternatives, they would simply have to see another doctor. They had the money, and Q was willing to spend it.

 

“Is there anything they can do?”

 

Bond shrugged, already looking like he was shutting off. “They could operate, but there are no promises. The scarring is bad. Maybe they could have done something when the damage was still new, but it's been years now. It could be too late.”

 

“Would you be willing to do that?” Q asked. He didn't add 'for me', because that wouldn't have been fair, and he wasn't sure if he could ask him that, anyway, or if he had the right. He sent Bond out routinely in the field, knowing that any one of his missions could end in his death, but this was different. It had to be Bond's decision.

 

Bond stared at him, eyes unblinking and hard. “They can't promise anything, Daniel.”

 

Q nodded. Bond didn't want him to get his hopes up. “I understand that. And it's your decision.”

 

“And if I decide not to?”

 

Q licked his lips. He truly didn't know the answer to that. It would mean a natural pregnancy would be all but impossible. Any pregnancy altogether would be improbable. They could adopt, but they were not the kind of couple who would make it to the top of the list after a background check. (Not that Q couldn't forge documents that stated they were completely harmless.)

 

_You're asking if I would blame you. If I would leave you. Truth is...I don't know. I can't promise anything. But I can tell you one thing._

 

“Then I will respect that,” he said finally. “James, none of this is your fault. I hope you know that.”

 

Bond continued staring as if he was looking from some hidden truth in Q's face, and finally his mouth quirked. “I've done worse, I suppose.”

 

“Then don't talk to me about finding another mate,” Q said almost angrily. “You're my mate.”

 

“And if...” Bond's voice trailed off. Q wanted to cry.

 

“Then we'll deal with that, together.”

 

Finally Bond softened. “Okay. Let's try. “

 

~

 

Q waited in the lab while Bond was undergoing surgery at Dr Logan's clinic. He didn't want to be idle, but when he burned his finger for the second time with his soldering iron, R brought him his satchel bag and sent him home.

 

(“You're a bloody menace, R.”

 

“And you're about to bring down the Health and safety and trust me, sir, you don't want them wandering around the branch poking at stuff.”

 

“...good point. Carry on.”)

 

The surgery was done with epidural, and Bond was able to go home after just a few hours in the recovery room. Dr Logan didn't perform the surgery herself, but assured them that the operating surgeon, Dr King, was excellent and had stellar reputation. Q briefly met Dr King in the pre-op appointment and had to admit she knew her business.

 

Bond was flirting with the nurses when Q came to collect him, and he had to roll his eyes in mild exasperation as the Betas and Omegas tittered and blushed. Bond shrugged and smirked at Q's admonishing look, which Q had to admit it was kind of reassuring, especially after Bond kissed him, in front of the nurses, with lots of tongue. Q went beet red and couldn't manage a rebuke.

 

“You're impossible,” he told his mate, going for stern and failing miserably.

 

“Yes, but I'm _your_ impossible,” Bond said against his mouth, petting his hair like it was a kitten.

 

That didn't even make any sense. They'd given Bond the good stuff and Q was grateful that at least he wouldn't be in pain for the next few hours.

 

Back home, Q wanted to kiss him better, but Bond told him that he'd been warned against any arousal and sexual activities, and therefore it would be better if Q kept away from his intimate parts. Which meant that they would have to sleep in separate beds too, because Q's scent tend to do things to Bond's libido, injured or not. Q didn't like it. He understood the necessity, but he didn't have to like it.

 

They decided to cuddle, platonically, but Bond wouldn't be Bond if he didn’t make it his life's mission to kiss Q everywhere. Q couldn't help the giggles that escaped. He tried, but it was all one could do when a scruffy Bond was applying lips to everywhere within his reach.

 

“I would love to take all your clothes off,” Bond murmured against his jaw, “and spread you all over my lap. Put my fingers inside you and just screw you until you were begging for more.”

 

Q groaned as his body started to respond, knowing that they couldn't, in fact, do what Bond was describing. “James, I'm going to kill you.” He felt Bond chuckle against his skin.

 

“Please don't,” Bond said pleasantly. “I rather like this. With you.”

 

Q took in his mate, his face drawn but blue eyes twinkling, still impossibly handsome, and dearer to him than he'd ever been. Than anyone had ever been.

 

“Even if this doesn't, if we can't...” he trailed off, and then steeled himself. “Even if there'll be no pups. I love you. That will never change.”

 

Bond looked at him with something akin to wonder in his eyes, and Q's nerves melted away. It was right and it was true.

 

_There is no barrier, now. Perhaps there never has been but those we built ourselves._

 

“I know,” Bond finally said. He ran his fingers down Q's face, smiling as Q closed his eyes. “I know you do. I do, too.”

 

_I know it's not easy for you to say it, but I hear you. And just because you don't say those three words doesn't mean it's not there._

 

~

 

 

“Oh for love of god James, stop hovering, I can hear you from here.” Q's voice was slightly more exasperated than usual while he grappled with the package. “This is going to take a few minutes.”

 

He heard James huff outside of the bathroom, and managed a tense smile.

 

_I know. It's killing me too. But I need to know, first, before I can face you._

 

He peed on the stick, wrinkling his brow in concentration to get the flow where it needed to go. A small hope blossomed in his chest, something he hadn't dared even contemplate some months before.

 

Bond looked on with trepidation when Q came out two minutes later, slightly pale, his lips trembling.

 

“It's okay, babe,” Bond said, reaching for Q and pulling him into a loose embrace. “It's still early days.”

 

Q sniffled against his shoulder. “It's positive.”

 

Bond froze, his hand pausing where it was buried in Q's hair. “Come again?”

 

“There's a pup. We're going to have a bloody baby.” And then the tears flowed. Sod Bond's four hundred quid dress shirt.

 

One day, Q thought, he was going to take the piss out of Bond for the noise he made, and for bodily lifting Q off the ground and twirling him around shouting “fucking yes”, but not today. Today, he laughed and shrieked at Bond to put him down this bloody instant before his knee gave out and they both ended up hurting themselves.

 

They both pretended it was only Q's tears that made their faces wet when they kissed, and Q was content for it to be so.

  
_It's okay. We're going to be okay. And we're going to be complete._

 

 

 

the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from a poem by e e cummings:
> 
> i like my body when it is with your  
> body. It is so quite new a thing.  
> Muscles better and nerves more.  
> i like your body. i like what it does,  
> i like its hows. i like to feel the spine  
> of your body and its bones,and the trembling  
> -firm-smooth ness and which i will  
> again and again and again  
> kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,  
> i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz  
> of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes  
> over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,
> 
> and possibly i like the thrill
> 
> of under me you so quite new


End file.
